Orpheus
MJ Stratton
some insignificant nights
I feel my soul go
the body just the spare room
in a cabinet and the words she felt
like flesh she wasn’t hanging strung out
and over me. what do you make
of follies? of this of us of either
or practitioner of angels that burn
holes into this one-hotel-room sky.
I’m hung on a spine wanting
to spit itself out. the wanting
is the worst of it. the best
I can do is make it mine. this
torn stocking this
snowed-in car and
busted knee
*Quote in italics by Matthew Henriksen
About the Author
How would one characterize M.J. Stratton? Student. Disturbingly pale. Twenty-three years old and “a woman now” but can’t get used to the sound of that. And human. So fucking human. Imperfect and awkward and so embarrassingly frizzy-haired-human that she feels everything as deeply as you do—she just writes it down. Previously published in Oscilloscope Literary Magazine, Stratton is an up and coming empath who wants nothing more than to connect with you through life and art.