Cord
for months my phone’s charging port
needed replacing but it could be rigged
at an angle to charge when the cord is wrapped
tight around it
when I was born
my cord was wrapped
tight around my neck
I was blue then pink it was fine
on my dying phone I look up nuchal cord
then nuchal cord significance
is it damaged?
the man at the phone repair shop asks me
a loaded question
I say it’s broken
what happened to it?
what couldn’t happen
to a thing like my body breakable
and on me all the times
it works until it doesn’t
I’ve got hours
without my phone while he
takes my device apart
splays it open
reveals the water damage
some of it my own sweat
some rain that poured into my open bag
I take my off glasses to clean them
all in a blur an entire block
I begin to develop a fantasy
about a landline
specifically a fantasy about a number
on a slip of paper
I call and wait for a response
I listen for the ringing while wrapping
my fingers in the cord’s curls
this fantasy becomes an overwhelming desire
to run into someone
anyone I know so I can say
I don’t have my phone right now
we’ll get coffee and talk for hours
we’ll wind up kissing in the park
we’ll fall in love
I’ll never pick my phone up
How to Fall Asleep
it’s natural these stages make me
a motel a coffin a mothermaidencrone
all gaps in the sidewalk
in a wall
cup
upturned helmet
umbrella
any visible chalice
becomes a trashcan
on the train
a man feeds himself
raw hot dogs from the package
his fist tunnel hides gentle bites
from the outside to inside
his mouth- a wig crawling
crabwise across the laminate-
my sleeping room solidifies
goes benign
from three until five
as a fine grind swarf
performs its hostile
disco in the window light
Nowhere
Samantha Hernandez is an MFA student at City College of New York. Her work aims to locate the intersection of the surreal with the mundane. Her poetry can be found in Taco Bell Quarterly, Endless Editions SPRTS, Dirt Children, and The Promethean.
The Marbled Sigh 