I Fall Apart Sweetly

poems by

Annie Albright

ISBN: 978-1-964277-13-4, 40 pages, $13 (+ shipping)

Release Date: November 12, 2024

The Advance Sale Discount price on this title has expired. For those who prefer to pay by check, the price is $18/book (which includes shipping & sales tax) and should be sent to: Main Street Rag, 12180 Skyview Drive, Edinboro, PA 16412. 

PLEASE NOTE: Ordering in advance of the release date entitles the buyer to a discount. It does not mean the book will ship before the date posted above and the price only applies to copies ordered through the Main Street Rag Online Bookstore.

Annie Albright is a resident physician and author whose poetry explores the messiness of queer womanhood, illness, and medicine. Her work has been published in Literary Yard and Sky Island Journal. This is her first chapbook-length collection. Annie lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her pit-bull, Chicken, and her frog, Hamster.

Pickled

I pickled radishes, once
and cut my thumb slicing the delicate pink fruit
a drop of blood fell in the pickling liquid
a drop of salt and salt
and I was reminded
of the specimens in my medical school anatomy lab
kidneys and livers and brains suspended in formaldehyde like
fetuses in the womb
still, and bloated, and beautiful
and I was briefly envious

at first

numb-sweet

and then
a gush
of salt and acid

and I fell apart

we ate them later still
the pickled radishes
syrupy
and bitter
and cold

Struggle bus

the next morning we climbed into a 2009 Hyundai Sonata
and drove 900 miles back to Atlanta
because our flights were canceled
because of a Christmas blizzard
because of a union strike
because,
fucking really?

they didn’t have a Subaru
and we named the red Hyundai the Struggle Bus
and you wrote that on the receipt and taped it to the dashboard

we held hands
as I drove
at each gas station only reluctantly relinquishing the dregs of each other
eyes set on the brilliant yellow lines disappearing in the distance
because we both knew we just had to get home
in order to fall apart

Familiar

it has been so long since I heard a bird call
with which I was not familiar, or maybe since I listened

this one a trill
like a persimmon tree in full bloom in February

then a beat

and a whimper
like a graveyard full of mice named Hermione

the unfamiliar sounds
set against low slung houses like sleeping dogs
set against jagged, rust-colored crags
still sharp enough to take my breath

Tattooed

I will paint on my body with all the colors
you briefly stole

I will etch it with hieroglyphs
so that there is no disputing what my body says

my body will hum like a typewriter
its rhythm spelling

mine

mine

mine