Emma Sullivan

Emma Jane Sullivan is a writer and artist living in Springfield, Missouri. She is currently teaching and studying in the Department of English at Missouri State University. She is currently working on a novel. This is her first publication.

Experts Say

Poetry

it is best, when experiencing behavior issues

with your dog to take them on a long walk. I have,

after some time, started to see why this makes sense.

exhaust the mammal so it no longer has energy for destructive

tendencies. if I were not living in the twenty-first century

and did not have a semi-reliable Honda to releases black molecules

full of waste and harmful chemicals into the air, how would

I exhibit my behavior issues? all mental health experts

and psychologists have leaflets full of answers and explanations.

you are this way because you are not that way. the semi-gloss

matte used to print complex diagrams of the human psyche onto

those leaflets makes the heavy cardstock non-recyclable.

the paper has behavior issues, refusing to be repurposed.

there is an at-home remedy. I am sure. the expert that

answers my video call eats ice chips from a Red Solo Cup

the entire time I talk about my problems. the link to the portal

did not work the first two or three times, so she had to send

me the email again. eventually, the portal opened and thank

god. now my boyfriend can eavesdrop from the other room.

it’s just, I keep ripping into bags of sourdough bread and

cream cheese while he is at work. I also continue to talk about

my discontent when he gets home, and unfortunately, it feels

like he is tugging on the end of the rope. instead of standing

on my own two feet like a human, I growl from the toe-side of

his tube sock. if I were not living in the twenty-first century

and could not whisper prayers of gratitude after driving by

the scene of car accident, would I go out and hunt for destruction?

would I walk among abandoned homes and oddly love the taste

of dirty water against my throat as I lap it up? would the mice

and woodland creatures become my friends, all of us licking clean

the insides of empty food wrappers and calling it survival.

I have decided to stay silent and ignore all experts in hopes

that someday, someone will appear with a brand-new,

cappuccino sofa set I can tear into with my sharp teeth

the second they turn their back.

Ode to My Left Ear

Poetry

If I cut you off and mail you to a lover.
Promise to become a better listener.
Take notes and stay open. If it happens today,
Remember, the last thing you heard was not me
Crying, saying things like, change is hard.
It would have been the welcome mat,
The one with a dumb slogan like, hello, beside
An image of Lional Richie’s sexy look. You spoke
The word aloud when you answered the first
Phone call. My lover oddly resembles Lional Richie
And might, after receiving my bloody ear, call it
a sexy look. I heard that a Jared Leto fan severed an ear
From their face, then mailed it to the American Psycho actor.
“I poked a hole in it, and wore it as a necklace,” Leto admits.
A meteorologist on a hotel bed remembers the quote,
And he tells us, laughing while leaning into his elbow.
Jay Leno wore a human’s ear around his neck?
I say in disbelief between bites of cheese pizza.
Leto, Jared Leto. My friend goes. The hot one
with a cult-like following, opposite to the late-night
host with a cameo in the Cars franchise.
I could have died in those giggles, but I stopped
To listen, with both of my ears still intact.

If I cut you off, dear left ear, and mail you to a lover,
The last thing you heard was the welcome mat
He dragged across the hardwood floor, Your friend
Decided to beat the dead insects and specks
Of dust out from the valleys of the coarse fabric.
Welcome back, welcome back your eyes scanned
The words over and over again, until they
Stung like a thousand honeybees.

You were getting good. You were getting really good.

Infinity

Poetry

there is another person that figures
the sandwich will be tough to bite into and
the road will feel much shorter on the way back.
grief is a shoe, unlaced. all rocks look alike, but you are special.
this person knows that the long trench coat was made for you.
they adore the fit. they see it like a permanent blanket over the body.
the small scrapes in life will become part of the frayed quilt, still unfinished
apparently. the much larger problems will become the sunset, red and drippy.
this person knows the figure eight made with a pencil, encoding infinity
onto our schoolwork, for probable solutions and determination,
was not really to test knowledge, but to scaffold endurance.
this person would like to sleep inside warm thighs.
you have thighs. you have washed the green grapes.
they are ready to be plucked from their stem, rationed
like bad advice, then devoured in seconds.

there too, is a love out there. it is waiting for you, ripe and ready
to be plucked from its dry stem, and rationed, then devoured
only in seconds.