Two Poems

by Leigh Chadwick and Adrienne Marie Barrios

Jesse Bowser

“Sometimes, I Think I Can See Right Through Myself”

Leigh Chadwick has a spine and she thinks that’s weird. Leigh Chadwick has a spleen and she thinks that’s weird, too. Leigh Chadwick has an orgasm and she thinks that’s good. Across the street and six states north, Adrienne Barrios stares at a wall. The wall is beige. Or maybe eggshell. She should be able to tell, but she can’t—she’s too focused on the Ritalin she took, waiting for it to kick in, to make her blood become blood. Her eyes focus on a crack on the wall. The crack runs from the ceiling to the baseboard. Adrienne Barrios thinks the word searing. She asks Leigh Chadwick, can walls be walls if they can’t promise to always be covered in paint? Leigh Chadwick says, Thoughts can be so simple. Like: what doesn’t coo should coo. Adrienne Barrios wonders what it would be like to coo. She gives birth to the panic that blooms inside a newly discovered mass grave. She feels teeth in her chest. She wonders how many times she can chew her own heart before it desiccates. She asks Leigh Chadwick if she feels the teeth, too. Leigh Chadwick says, Yes, I feel the teeth. I have always felt the teeth.

“What If We Have a Poem Called ‘Love Song’ and It Just Goes”

Adrienne Barrios takes a Xanax and then she takes another. And then another. And then she pretends to sleep but instead she masturbates under the duvet and then she takes another Xanax but shit they’re only .25 mg so don’t worry she can take another. And another. And maybe she shares one or two with Leigh Chadwick or maybe she fills a Pez dispenser with the white oval-shaped pills and Leigh Chadwick opens her neck and the pills drop straight down into her stomach like pennies tossed into a wishing well. And maybe someday Adrienne Barrios and Leigh Chadwick stop taking Xanax. Instead, maybe they take Valium or maybe they take Klonopin or maybe but probably not Ativan or maybe they take a bed with a man shaped like a Xanax or Valium or maybe Klonopin or maybe the man is shaped like the sun or maybe the man is the sun because why not and so they decide to not take anything else. No more, Adrienne Barrios and Leigh Chadwick say, so instead they go back to college and get doctorates in bird watching because this is a poem and what is a poem without birds and what is a poem without Zofran so Dr. Barrios takes a Zofran and what is a poem without Adderall so Dr. Chadwick takes an Adderall and what is a medicine cabinet but a safe deposit box for emotions and what is the corner of a room if you’re not hiding in it and what is a kitchen if the plates aren’t cracked, chipped, left, sometimes swept into a pile and what is a Xanax if it’s not already swallowed?

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Adrienne Marie Barrios has work forthcoming in superfroot mag, Autofocus Lit, and Sledgehammer Lit. She is editor-in-chief of Reservoir Road Literary Review and edits short stories and award-winning novels. Find her online at adriennemariebarrios.com.

Leigh Chadwick is the author of the poetry collection Your Favorite Poet (Malarkey Books, 2022) and the collaborative poetry collection Too Much Tongue (Autofocus, 2022), co-written with Adrienne Marie Barrios. Her poetry has appeared in Salamander, Passages North, Hobart, The Indianapolis Review, and Hobart, among others. She is a regular contributor at Olney Magazine, where she conducts the “Mediocre Conversations” interview series. Find her on Twitter at @LeighChadwick5.