How to Make Your Own Paper

By Sophie Ezzell

First you find used paper—

newspapers, scratch paper, notebook

paper that’s been bruised

& folded & pushed

inside freezer ice. Next

you tear it. Feed it

to a blender & let the sharp

edges cut

out the name, then drown

her pieces in warm water spilled

from the kitchen sink. At some point

you should ask a priest 

if this turns the water holy

or just makes paper wet.

Once the letters are moist

& blue ink lifted 

from words & baptized in water, 

the blades need to pulse

the shreds into a thick pulp. They should move

at the same pace as your heart

when her hands landed

on your hips. Everything

becomes quicker. Then you pour

the pulp into a cookie sheet—it should be the red

one your mother used to toast

the almonds she packed inside

your Barbie lunchbox. Now

you’re supposed to give

the paper texture—they suggest flower petals

& untied twine, so you throw

in the pieces of she loves you

& she loves you

not that you held inside

the Barbie box for years

& years too long—loose threads you’ve pulled

from the sleeves of her shirts & your shirts 

that smell too much like her

perfume & you shake the tray

until the pulp swallows

what should have been

trash & wait

for the mixture to dry

on its back, when it’s complete

it becomes undone but remains

a hallowed stain

on a virgin sheet

of flattened rain.

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Sophie Ezzell (she/her) is a queer urban Appalachian writer. Her work has appeared in Under the Sun, Aquifer, and Pidgeonholes, and has been nominated for a Pushcart. She recently graduated from Marshall University with a BA in Creative Writing and is now pursuing an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Oklahoma State University. Lately, her work has begun to explore the relationship between trauma and the Appalachian region. Since moving to Oklahoma, she has become afraid of wolf spiders, the ever-looming threat of tornadoes, and flat landscapes.