Three Poems by Arvilla Fee

 

The Reel

 

I see her. . .riding shotgun, windows down. Bare feet on the dash. Long dark hair whipping around her face. She laughs, stuffs fizzy Pop Rocks in her mouth. Flashback. Before her back ached. Before pain and pills. Before she wanted something more.

 

*

 

She falls in slow motion, the adored main character, over the edge of a cliff. We scream. Melodramatic music plays in the background—each note long, low, hollow. Falling. Job loss. Falling. Restricted pupils. Falling. Low potassium. As she spirals down like a ruffled goose feather, her voice carries on the wind. . .I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. We want desperately to believe.

 

*

 

Silver casket, blue velvet lining. Dark hair loose on a white satin pillow. Eyes closed. Hands over her mid-section. Tears and snot stream down mourners’ faces. Oh, how they play their parts well—those with slippery hands and guilty hearts.

 

film strip ends

slap, slap, slap

steel projector

 

Square Peg

 

My heart beats rapidly. There are too many feet. Too many shoulders. Pressing. Hurrying. I try to focus on one thing—a store’s name, a 50% off sign—but there are too many. And why had I worn this t-shirt today? It’s the one with the square tag in the back of the neckline. It didn’t bother me this morning, but now, my skin feels like it’s crawling with ants. I claw at the back of my neck, but someone bumps my elbow, sending my arm askew. My pace quickens. The food court must be up ahead. Smells of beef, fish, pizza, and a spice I can’t identify assault my nose. I think I’m going to be sick. A chubby toddler lies on his tummy in the middle of the floor screaming, tears and snot running down his tomato-red face. I feel his pain. I imagine my own body pressed against the cool tiles, fists railing against a world that seems increasingly small.

 

someone scribbles

on a yellow notepad

neurodivergent

The Wounded Road

 

She stares into the bathroom mirror,

surprised to see her angled collar bone.

She wonders when she last had a meal.

So many days are wrapped in wispy gauze.

 

Surprised to see her angled collar bone,

she flinches at the unfamiliar lines.

So many days are wrapped in wispy gauze,

discarded clothing strung across the floor.

 

She flinches at the unfamiliar lines,

long, limp hair stuck to scar-marked cheeks.

Discarded clothing strung across the floor,

a testament to black holes in her mind.

 

Long, limp hair stuck to scar-marked cheeks,

she wonders when she last had a meal.

A testament to black holes in her mind,

she stares into the bathroom mirror.

Previously published in Snakeskin Poetry March 2026

 

Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State College and is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). Arvilla’s favorite quote in the whole word is: "It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau. To learn more, visit her website and check out her poetry magazine:

https://soulpoetry7.com/