Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.


amidst a backdrop of wilting lexicons,
there are certain words we work hard to remember –
they are the words of the body,
the veins and arteries, tendons, muscles

we keep those words in our fingertips,
and along the edges of our blades

when we kill, we do so with gravity

dropped down deer,
we are talking to your carotid
to your failing heartbeat
to your wide-eyed beauty;
we have worked hard to remember this language
that we might start speaking again,
that this might be more than just a kill

we are digging for dialogue in your ribcage.


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