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  • Writer's pictureLammergeier Staff

Two Poems | Amanda Pszczolkowski

Tornado Warning

To be young is to be taken

under siege, corridors

of children kneeling, gravel between nape

and palm. To be young is wish on extra-terrestrial bodies, gape 

at the green dragging bare faces skyward.

I want to wring my tongue out

like a wet towel and lap up the flood waters.

To drink. To divulge. To be young 

is to be asked Do you think you can

run faster than me? To the park

and back?

and to plunge into blacktop. You dare me

now in a windless rain:

Come on, just the park and back.

 At times my body looks like an unseasoned turkey 

my legs tied back as hands reach within me 

and foil-pack the innards for the dogs. 

Sometimes I think a wet brine does the same 

as gargling saltwater. There’s nothing sexy

about a naked turkey that listens

as the hands that bind detail the things they’ll do 

to keep it moist. A Cosmo how-to guide

regurgitated en masse: some meat cannot be tender

without taking a beating. I brace for the eventual 

question over stuffing and potatoes: when 

are you going to find someone nice? 

What dog will unpack the foil?

Amanda Pszczolkowski is a writer and a lover of bigfoot and crossword puzzles. She graduated from Grand Valley State University with a B.A. in writing in 2021. Her poetry has been published in Stanchion and Rogue Agent, with forthcoming work in Sonora Review. She lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan.



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