top of page


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.

bottom of page