wildscape. literary journal

Plasticity
by Alina Kalontarov

I saran wrap my steaks the way
I preserve my dreams: loosely
and with a healthy suspicion 
that they might spoil 
before they ever see a skillet. 
Still, I keep a shake of salt in every drawer.
Isn’t it funny how much slip 
we can hold, our insides without casing.
How many different ways 
we can fit a ghost with bones. 
The old lady across the street
came out every afternoon,
as the children walked home 
from school, to watch for speeding 
cars from her stoop. 
She knew they would come—
the children, the cars.
Isn’t it funny 
how we carry our young in our teeth 
but the world still bites.

about the author // Alina Kalontarov