Alexandra Dillard

I Feel So Uneasy About

the wind, my dress & the thighs poking from it, my hunger, how I look from behind, the sounds my shoes make even on carpet & carpeting, strangers, old friends, the stench of wilting flowers, cobblestone, the bars on city benches so that persons experiencing homelessness are unable to rest on them, rest, America, America, having children someday & childbirth, not having children someday & loneliness, discovering purpose, exhaustion, the unprecedented unreasonably unusually warm weather for February, the State of the Union, not having a union, not wanting to have a union, the state of the world

not deserving a world, the stagnant rooftop water I see from my window at work being the same puddled water as last week, my nail polish scratching off before Im ready, driving long distances & car crashes, the dry patch of skin on on one half-inch section of my cheek, cancer, not washing my hands before putting my contacts in or taking them out, being too hot & being too cold, being too open & being too secretive, escalating conflicts between extended family members, southern pride, white people who say southern pride and mean white pride, people like my uncles, the confederate flag & civil war memorabilia, trees being cut down even if theyre rotted, the way my wrists and hips crack when I bend

bending kneecaps, most of all the sun dying out, the possibility of intestines ripping & turning upside down, falling, surprise parties & surprises, slow internet speeds, Facebook ads, law enforcement, the sounds people make in movie theaters, the beginnings of things & the endings of things, the word things & things, how frequently I chew skin off my lips, my blood-crusted cuticles, a broken nail, cat litter strewn across my apartment floor, billboard ads, the sand on beaches & the balls in ball pits, my pale skin, carbon monoxide, phone notifications, missing children, too many cardboard boxes, social media, any cold air touching my teeth

teeth, money & where money comes from, the wine stain from my spill on my grandmothers old sweater, inheritances, the kind of person who declaws a cat

Alexandra Dillard writes poems and essays, and often a combination of the two. She is from Memphis, Tennessee, where she lives in an apartment with: three cats, one dog, an illustrator boyfriend, and a balcony crowded with empty plant pots.