Autobiography

I laugh when I cut

onions, tears

streaming down my face.

There is nothing I love more

than for my body to shake.

I have never left an art class

without being covered in paint,

talcum dust, clay.

When I get poison ivy

it covers me

collarbone to inner toe.

I say the word puppet

and move my strung up

fingertips

to a rhythm only I can hear,

the twittering, tapping of

hearts breaking.

I cannot bear

to stop.

My first kiss

happened on a park bench,

in the cold

I can still taste it.

Not much I can do

about that.

I like to write

so

give me a lure, I will

snake it

through the meat

of your tender cheek

take you down – line and sinker –

and let the bubbles seep out.

They’ll only pop

once they touch

solid ground.

Kathryn Matheson's first book of poetry, Cold Strawberries, was published in 2014. She remembers writing her first poem at age 13 and has spent every spare moment since then reading, writing and breathing poetry. Matheson, now 25, lives and works in New York City. She is currently in the process of writing her second book.