Marathon

I don’t know what kind of birds these are. It bothers me. I’d like to name them flurry, a word just light enough for their round bodies. They occupy this uneven ground, the sidewalk crack that juts up like a broken tooth. They scatter as I run through their flock. Re-collect: flurry. I’d like to imagine my brain as a pumpkin and splatter my seeds across the kitchen table. Give a child a chisel. Scrape my skull again and again until the pulp is gone, until there’s nothing left but smooth flesh to run your fingers over. Baltimore is a tough city to move through unless you’re light enough to lift yourself. I am bone dense. I am gristle. I’d sink in the harbor. I’d like to imagine the voice whispering you don’t deserve to eat today as a lizard flicking his thin tongue into the ridges of my mind. He molts in the spring, leaves his skin rotting under my tongue. I’d like to imagine I’ll kill him one day. This stoplight is broken and turned the wrong way. The red eye stares at me, not the cars. How long will it take to run these legs off? How long will it take to write myself light?

Anna Scott

Anna Scott is a poet from the Midwest. A recent Johns Hopkins graduate, she is the 2023 winner of the American Academy of Poets Laureen Rita Schipsi Prize and the Johns Hopkins Danielle Alyse Basford Writing Prize. Her work can be found in October Hill, Quirk, Wilder Things, and elsewhere. Outside of writing, Anna enjoys working with young people, running long distances, and dreaming about her next thru-hike. You can find her on Instagram @scottanna24.