Spewing

Saturday, May 29, 2021

Spewing up moths,
aching for butterflies.

Dancing in the muddy pits
of that river
where I cut my leg
the summer I turned
eight.

Honey in the pantry,
ravaged by my shaking hands.
Poor out your glory
upon my worn tongue!

I beg until my mouth
can only form a crack.

Sunlight opened.
I nodded toward
the onlookers
like I was dawn.

I pierce the howls of past worlds.

Ripping my teeth on wooden doors.
Behind them,
my old dressing gowns lie.

I think of everything.

The buttery moon catches fire
night drips into my skin.
I rest my heels on the warbler’s nest.

This piece was published by Vita Brevis Literature.

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