Meaghan Andrews

Meaghan Andrews is a poet from Georgia about to depart to Chongqing, China to teach English as a foreign language. She believes travel and experience help to create better writing! She has been previously published in Nine Mile Magazine, The Round, Feminine Inquiry, and others.

Descent

It’s gravity—my bones are too full of marrow, too
well reinforced with cartilage and edged with realism
so they fall faster than yours, settling into a routine
of sacrifice to the Gods that keep the electricity
running, water clear and flowing, stucco ceiling
overhead. Your bones caught fire in the atmosphere
when you saw the 5×3 cubicle waiting to engulf
you, so you said “Fuck it,” and are now floating
by the pyramids of Giza while I keep your seat warm,
trying to catch myself on fire.

Girl,

hang your head low,
don’t make eye contact,
ignore stranger’s sharp slurs;
compliments, really. You know better
than to wear a skirt that short. Yes, I know
it ends just above your knees, even the neighbors
can see. But it’s red, and just like a matador taunts
a bull, it fixates them.
Sure…Sure. ‘Them’ is an over-generalization. But
that word has more than three syllables, try not
to use it. Also, less make-up next time. There is a fine
line between looking natural and actually
being natural. You know what they say
about women who wear too much make-up
or young girls who like v-neck dresses.

They deserved it.