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.