Capsule
According to the questionnaire
you’re not emotionally stable enough to get bangs
which makes sense considering
you just had your 19th nervous breakdown.
This is before the vampires bleached their teeth,
before the Seaport became the Seaport
and our pizza place in Haymarket closed,
when the giddyup girls still dated Satan’s men
and Princess Diana buried a time capsule
in the wall of the Great Ormand Street Hospital.
Once, in your glorious twentysomethings
you thought you were a cosplay girl.
Twice a truant shrike, then a fish
using a disaster for a temporary reef.
The sudden gust of spiritual delusion
smells like wet footprints and cherries in the summer.
Your nurse could only speak Italian.
Goddamn the beauty created by others is something.
The sun is like that part where the guitars come in.
I’m exposed and as unblinking as a car crash.
Damon Hubbs is the poetry editor at Blood+Honey and The Argyle Magazine. He’s the author of the full-length collection Venus at the Arms Fair (Alien Buddha Press, 2024). Recent publications include Hobart, The Literary Underground, The Azarão Lit Journal, Horror Sleaze Trash, Pool Party Magazine, & others. He lives in New England.
