calibrating the dream machine

by Ty Raso

In my hometown, there was

this bridge. Sounded like an

apocalypse whenever you drove

over it, the river beneath always

a little sickly with stones. 

I was raised by liars. Black mold

in my childhood bedroom. No one

ever hurt me. The concrete of

my small throat. Socks coming

pink from the washing machine.

I don’t have much to say.

My father is a kind man, held

God like a baseball bat. Left

my jawline in his will. Our faces

falling from one another.

My mom had this tomato plant,

upside-down, in the kitchen window.

Nothing grew from it. She’d smoke

with a rubber glove on. We could

hardly see her face through 

the sour mist.

When I fell in love, I was walking

up a hill. My bones were somewhere

else. None of this is important,

even if it is true.

I think about dreaming a lot.

There’s this one where music

spills out of my ears.

Nobody knows the song. 

Yet everyone’s toes tap

the wet grass. Someone stands up

to leave. A tangle

of sound holding the hole

their body made.

Ty Raso (she/they) is a poet, essayist, and teacher. Her work is featured or forthcoming in POETRY, The Adroit Journal, Electric Literature, The Offing, Black Warrior Review, DIAGRAM, Salt Hill Journal, Split Lip Magazine, and elsewhere. She's currently in residence as a fellow at the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center, and she is the author of the collection Mirror Would Be A Beautiful Name for A Child (Noemi Press, 2027).