Hailie Cochran By Hailie Cochran
CW: addiction
When you find yourself wild,
wedged between toilet and tub porcelain,
fingers wet, locked around the plastic rim
of your roommate’s Listerine bottle or
rinsing smoke and vomit from tangled hair
with hand soap in a Quik-Zip bathroom,
remember that sting
as salvation rips down and into
your empty tavern stomach—
a warm rum to keep the body going, guiding
heat to the fingertips and loins and lips and
then, liver, corroded—
dying like this brings fruit flies
and smells like raw meat on rusty hooks.
It crunches like glitter.
When you scrape your body
out of the strange comforter,
your bones will already be stiff
and something on you will be sticky.
Scramble to the dirty hallway mirror,
see the swirling reflections of you—
note the tremble of pupils
atop glassy pools of yellow
and do not allow the shame
to sour the moment—do not forget
to swallow the stomach acid back down.
Hailie Cochran, currently residing in Macon, Georgia, graduated from Mercer University, where she studied English and creative writing and worked precepting for introductory writing courses. Her poetry has appeared in two volumes of The Dulcimer and volume twelve of Outrageous Fortune; her poem “Hysteria” was named as a finalist in the Steven R. Guthrie Memorial Writers’ Festival Contest through Agnes Scott College. In her free time, you can find her people-watching in Tattnall Square Park or serving tables at Bearfoot Tavern. You can find her on Instagram @vanhailie.
Why we chose this piece: Damn, Hailie knows exactly how to wield an image. We love the heightened moments like “salvation rips down and into / your empty tavern stomach” and “scrape your body out of the strange comforter.” The juxtaposition of the smell of rotting meat with the texture of crunchy glitter is a visceral turning point. Hailie writes with some serious presence.
