poetry: results 1–5 of 5

the nerves keep 'em shaking, and so

if you take a shovel and split the body, bi-

furcate him, trifurcate him, his little teeth still spit…

When door of death

yawns, dress me pink.

I-resounding,

Earth-sequestered-

Paint me six

feet with stilettos…

some women lose more than me,

the uterus, the ovaries, the fallopian tubes, it's good

he says that it was caught early enough. he speaks

with the ease that implies that the body is nothing

more complex than the limbless, trapdoored models

that decorate biology classrooms…

Maps are never skin. I know

that you're only a guide but

I prefer to pretend otherwise.

Here, a closeness is lost in our morning rituals.

Some type of forgetfulness concerning

the risks we take, the casual violence inherent

to the most mundane of acts. That's what she liked,

I think. The rough slide of the blade.