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.

​

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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