Untethered

without you I crush 

a can of Coke to my lips 

and sip in solitude 

sneaking away

from your holy body

and I imagine my teeth 

look like the pockmarked clouds 

cradling the plane 

as you can’t taste 

mischief on my mouth

or remind me that 

we belong to sky untethered 

not this metal womb

but I tell myself I leave vice 

thousands of feet upwards 

from the beaches that stick 

to my toes and scent my hair 

that I leave vice 

inside Heaven’s bowels 

with only the dozing man 

beside me to bear witness 

before I deposit 

ostentatious aluminum 

in a bulging brown bag 

to be whisked away 

into the belly 

of my nine-hour home 

and since you aren’t here 

to take the window seat 

I shut out barmecidal blue

with a plastic pull

and steal what sleep I can

shivering

I asked my mother for red

to grow my reflection when I meet it.

Tilt the chin. Square the shoulders.

Stumbling through a handful of noes—

the family toolbox, names for a rose, 

apples from the garden—I asked 

my grandmother for red. From her 

hand to mother’s to mine: a tube

of lipstick. She said wear the words 

you keep in your belly. I pull thoughts 

to the front of my mouth and ignite 

with every breath.

Malia Maxwell (she/her) is a writer from Seattle, Washington. Her poetry is often inspired by the core people in her life, whether that’s her family, other strong women, or her favorite living and long-dead authors (s/o Gertrude Stein). Malia’s top three favorite trees are, in no particular order: Douglas firs, Alaskan yellow cedars, and Western red cedars. She is currently pursuing a B.A. in English Literature with an emphasis in Creative Writing from Stanford University.