Nora Glass




Darling, it’s already lodged in my throat.
Darling, I’m a day over 14 and already ripened,
Wrinkled and spotted and sour,
Wiry hair, ashy eyes, mean mother.
(What else is new?)
Gnawing the inside of my lip.
                    Next, aguey sensation of death.
The agonies: sweet, hot, glassy.
Glazed eyes, slack jaw, dry lips.
Bitter hunger, flaming cheeks,
And a sense that I’m being watched.
                    Mister, I’m nauseous.
Don’t touch me, I’m a sweaty
Virgin in her lemony grave.
Snakish, sweet men
Cut me like switchgrass.
                    I’m spotted with bits of
Mold I pick at my skin I
Prepare for my wedding day
And remember that
A picked apple is already dead.





Nora Glass is a high-strung 17-year-old from Atlanta, Georgia. Passionate about the theatrical, poetic, and linguistic, she can be found reading, writing, and making unnecessarily complicated spreadsheets. Her poetry has appeared in the Weight Journal, Eunoia Review, and Moonflake Press. Her website can be found at noraswriting.weebly.com.