Material History of the Closet [Lay’s Potato Chips]
by Tyler Raso
how my mother found me, teethful
of worms and hand bulbing
with mud like a lost thought. there was
a boy my 9-year old body pulled
itself toward, is that clear? we shared
potato chips in the park, my hand brushing
his on the way in–that we laugh
at this kind of accident, our mouths full
as mirrors. touch is our
roots. my mother needling her
fingernail between my teeth to loosen the worm
matter like grammar. the boy was
there, right there, right by the runoff
of my body, i knew even though i could not
see him, is that clear?
i mean
the worms in my mouth falling
to the rustling dirt. it only took a moment before
they comma’d themselves. i mean
their many-ness, how they grow again into themselves
like rain, or sound, or the rooms you live in
in your dreams. first, they reacquainted themselves
with the ground, then the body that was always a-
part of them. and, and one went off
on its own.
Tyler Raso (they/them) is a poet, teacher, and multimedia artist. Their work is featured or forthcoming in POETRY, Black Warrior Review, DIAGRAM, Salt Hill Journal, The Journal, and elsewhere. They currently write, teach, and study in Bloomington, IN, tweeting @spaghettiutopia