Rehash

by Juliette Hagobian

---

My father snores like 
           the moonlight
                      is clogging his throat, and I’m
           afraid his crash will dispatch my own attrition.
We hung ourselves over the train tracks
                      and forgot to
latch onto its steel skirt.
           The noise of the night 
is a man yelling
           GOD BLESS AMERICA
                      to the sidewalks with a voice
of longing. It’s midnight, 
           and my father has forgotten 
           what time the station dismisses the outside world. 

                                 Dad we’re safe

crosses a blue streak on his phone 
                      like his irises
           have slipped from the ledge.
                                 We left home for a discovery;
                      a new way
                                 to let go of each other.
                      ​1 AM. My world 
           is dizzied and desolate. Every limb 
is a damp matchstick
                      hopeless in the pockets of my jacket.
           Eyelashes land 
                      in my palm and bite
at the hills of skin like  
                                 a mosquito in heat. 
The streetlights above me 
           trouble my eyesight 
                      and my heartbeat turns into the pattern
           of our escape.        
                      A tragedy, this daughter. 
                                 ​A half-sewn shirt
hanging off her shoulders like 
           the satin is ready to leap 
                      into the adjacent river. 

The moon does not 
dictate your life. 
We’re going 
to have a serious talk 
about this when
we get home. 

           ​I throw stones at the wall
                      and Emilia asks where I am. I’m
                      spiraling 
and a reverse rapture contorts
           my torso.
                      Even in this darkness,
I’m a disposition of my father’s hatred. 
           I am a pried contact lens 
                      ​left parched on the carpet.
My hands outstretch themselves until
           the entire floor is ridged with paleness. 
This building is a ghost town
                                 and I join the ones who wear 
           ​linen on their breasts. Whoever awaits 
outside this dorm 
           is going to pour bleach
over my eyes 
                      and watch me squirm.
The edge of the world is now
                      my bed. I lay still 
and watch the ceiling
                      bend in regret. 
           I am
                                 barren like 
                      an infertile mother. 
We are all cut-up 
snowflakes displayed on our parent’s fridge
           waiting 
                                 ​to ricochet after 
                      the tape dries.
My father and I fatigue on different sides
           of the street and wait
                                 for the sun
to ruffle in the sky.

​
                                 I’m sorry I lied
                      I’ll explain in the morning
​

You’re dead to me.

---

Juliette Hagobian (she/her) is an eighteen-year-old poet and writer from Los Angeles, California. She has been published or is forthcoming in Filter Coffee Zine, h-pem, Corporeal, and The Howl. She works as a poetry/prose editor for Kalopsia Literary. Juliette is a 2023 poetry mentee of the Adroit Journal’s Summer Mentorship Program. She loves fruit-flavored gum and will beat you in a game of Just Dance. Find her on Twitter as @jjules_h.

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