Milk teeth

Grey Martin

somewhere at the end of Santa Cruz St i drew a circle
in the sand and stood in it, holding a rabbit who bit 

its own foot off everyday—blood warm enough to forget
we were in the pacific. the sun as useless as ever.

that evening, i hung keys in the sky like fireworks
over a black ocean. then i left. everything

buckled into a plane seat at 4 a.m. 
and fresh out of the sky i was already spinning

in socks on the concrete. 
i like this newness more than i’d like to

be forgiven. after two hours i make it to a beach 
and sit at the end of a jetty, pulling fur and bones 

out from my teeth. each bone is a lock pick.
there’s a fisherman down below, looking out, 

hat shadowing most of his head, hands leathered. 
his face is raining. he follows when the tide retreats.

Grey Martin (she/they) is a queer poet who is set on exploring perception and the messiness of existence through means of observation, folklore, or otherwise. She's interested in the many truths that exist, and that no matter how juxtaposing they may seem to each other they can all be real. Their poems can be encountered in print through LA Miscellany or aloud at Kan Yama Kan, Brooklyn Poets, and other various reading spots. They can be found spreading her words through spontaneous typewriter poetry across NYC. Grey holds an MFA from New York University and resides in Brooklyn, NY.