Kelli Charland
A Letter to My Amygdala
Baby, tonight I’m facing this world.
At moonrise I’m romping naked in the backyard
woods—but don’t tell anyone. I’ll be deep in its maws
by the time you see this, stomping barefoot on poisonous
mushrooms and wrapping my hands around thick
copperheads just to say I did so. I’ll come back,
don’t worry, but not until my feet are split to ribbons
and at risk of honey-combed infection. Not until
I find larvae digging deep between my toes, suckling my blood.
And don’t you worry, I did the shopping—there’s fresh peaches
on the counter. I ate one before leaving and didn’t clean my chin.
Please do not follow my bloody tracks, I just need to see
what all the fuss is about. I’m so tired of waiting and watching
as the snow falls and melts and falls again. Really, it’s no problem,
but I feel trapped, sweet pea, so while you’re asleep
I’m spread-eagling it on a rotting stump
counting down the seconds until spring.
This is what it means, right? coming out breathing?
I’m coming out breathing.
Kelli Charland (she/her) is an emerging poet from upstate New York. Her creative nonfiction and poetry can be found in Saranac Review‘s blog and in Gandy Dancer. She is the social media manager of Saranac Review and manages a small used bookshop.
