Sienna Tristen is an artist, poet, and writer living in Toronto, where she studies Linguistics at York University. She works as Assistant English Editor of campus newspaper Pro Tem, and as a junior poetry editor for the literary journal Existere.
An Hour Later I Was a Sardine
He's stupid and lovely for staying up
'till slush dawn, heels dug stubborn
against sleep for five minutes of
warmth too soon torn like paper
middle-distance eyes and
our walls breathe bleary confusion.
'You don't have to.'
I am ripping my body from atrophy—
the salamanders in my back nest in
fresh coals, smoking limbs into motion,
little shivers and sobs leave bite marks
in my strength and run away
with their mouths full— padlock teeth
slam shut and lock entire skull
'I don't want to.'
Still and then writhing in the
fully-bloomed audience of the dark
I feel my faith frost over--
the clock spits its numbers out:
too late to reconsider
too late to follow through
no time no time no time.
'Tell me to go.'
A pause; a deep swimming breath.
I drop an anvil kiss on-hand,
slingshot from bed and tumble away.
Chocolate moths cluster in the cracks of gymnasium ceiling. I stare at them as Warrior One makes my muscles tremble. My throat may need scraping with a plastic spoon but my hip flexors will elasticize, in time. At this moment, the WBC Brigade is blazing blue silver, broadswords and dual pistols grasped in supple wrists. They are the finest unit the nation of my body has to offer. Arms akimbo they survey the dripping mess they've made - they remember its second cousins, who had also not wiped the mud from their shoes at the door and who had also been carved up, cannibalized. It is surprisingly Aztec of them. Wet forest smell and pine needle worms on pavement remind me why I love this place - warm wind at one elbow, Jethro Tull at the other, I traipse on home. Minty lemongrass is cradle for my cranium; green tea tongue is limbic lullaby. The WBC Brigade brings out the third battalion. (They are my immune system, if it was not clear.)
What It Looks Like Before It’s Pretty
One Hospital Cocktail Later
I used to walk up to people and try
to start a conversation but
they wouldn’t understand me
I feel like a vibrator.
Sorry for dragging you out of bed(it’s fine)—
What if a guy got in a fight with
an elephant, yeah, and the guy
impaled himself on it?
E F P T O Z L E D P E C F D
The TRONicle adventures,
Tron Tron Troy LISTEN
Sometimes I feel like such a burden(you’re not)—
I wanna watch Skins
I feel homesick(homestuck?)—