I don’t want my body
to be a rose puckered impossible duvet, don’t want

commentary to hang on it, like a too loose shirt I’ll just cut up
into rags and clean the kitchen with. I want

to be a Douglas Fir, left well enough
alone, fuck all the festive ornamentation

glimmering on my too scraggly limbs. I’d be better
suited for kindling

anyway. Just immolate me
please, I’d rather warm a house

than be its welcome matt or sense
of decorum.

Emma Koch


Emma Koch is a writer and divinity school student living in Chicago. Her work has previously appeared in Glassworks, Bright Wall/Dark Room, The Quail Bell, and Slab Literary Journal. You can find her being a sports nerd at @emmathekoch on Twitter.

© 2019