Marisa Lainson

Old Scabs

She and I lie on sunwarm tile, playing
dead for kicks: ketchup slick 

on our stomachs, eyeshadow
stolen from her sister purpling 

our eyes. Children, we
have only seen death in goldfish 

and movies but make a mock
offering, paint each other’s skin 

red for the game, lick our fingers
clean. Later that summer 

we carve our names into the dark
oak but pocket the knife, press 

together old scabs, wanting blood-
sworn pact sans slice 

or scar. How we spurn holiness
unknowingly. Our spines curl 

together in the tire swing, her honey-gold
hair tangled with mine. Feet bare 

in the dirt, her thigh pressed warm
into my hip, I want to kiss

the bruises on her knees.
I don’t. Always, 

I get worship wrong, shy
away from the scythe.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Marisa Lainson (she/they) is a queer poet from Southern California. She recently earned her MFA from the University of California, Irvine, where she served as Poetry Editor of Faultline Journal of Arts & Letters. Their work has appeared in The Journal, Poet Lore, The Pinch, Frontier Poetry, Peatsmoke Journal, Stonecoast Review and Foothill Poetry Journal, where they were a finalist for the 2021 Foothill Editor’s Prize.