by Ana Pugatch
Paper tiger, tell me
the wrong day you’ll
be home. Come in
with the hoverflies
pretending to be
bees. I get that
feeling I get when I
drop food on my
chest, a chest I keep
hidden, like root of
valerian. I’ll up the
sleep dosage, since
the white knot of
demons is only a fist.
[Ana Pugatch is pursuing her MFA in poetry at George Mason University in Virginia, where she also teaches composition. She has a bachelor’s degree in English from Skidmore College, and a master’s degree from the Harvard Graduate School of Education. She taught English in China and Thailand for several years. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Thin Air Magazine, The Esthetic Apostle, Third Wednesday, Remington Review, Cagibi, Bangalore Review, and Foothill Poetry Journal, among others.]
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