Life Cycles
In all our makeshift bedrooms your hands dig
into my hips like there is dirt under soft flesh.
into my hips like there is dirt under soft flesh.
One day, the backseat of my car. The next
your father’s shed full of microscopes
where he stares at beetle larvae and veined,
moldy leaves rather than your sunken face.
The morning tastes sour. Glistening,
you press my cheek into the grass
and I whisper that hurts to the fire-
ants instead. Your stomach yowls
Uproot me from tomorrow. The basement
in your house is sound-proof and filled
with butterfly paraphernalia, framed wings
watching you dissect me against the wall.
Dirt spills like sunlight from my mouth
as you snap my wrists like charred sticks
beneath our vicious feet. I know
you’re leaving honeyed bruises.
In all our makeshift bedrooms you touch like your Dad.
That hurts crawls around my throat, lovely like a spider.
Inlandia: A Literary Journey 