1: an insect in its final, complete, adult, mature, and typically winged state
2: an idealized image of another person or of the self that only exists in the mind
My stomach feels cold and wraps
its knuckles inward
because a fist is a shelter.
The cold traces (treks) (tracks)
to my heart
and I finish off the day by writing in my mouth
a small and kept “I hope I see you, once we reach again, again.”
I’m sorry that I get so cold and
my blemishes darken (on my chin or the ridge of the bottom of the back of my neck)
with age to full bodied until they walk alone straight off.
She turns out from the edge of my eye,
out to my scabs swelling cold
I walk alone straight off.
She bites without teeth because that
is how her imago bites
mandible like her closed hand and her head resting
cocked like she watches or listens even with closed eyes and ears
resting sloping neck and I only know her, subconscious
and dry mouthed.
She bites memories pulling tissues out in handfuls ripping
away until she matures hidden in now her own
version of my fist, I made her parasitoid
and she grows and I cool stomach out missing her;
I open my fist and she flies out leaving the sweat between my knuckles.
pruning myself down with a pair of rubber red handled sticky clippers
I’m getting a bit tired of being roses
and my bloom and my bud and my wilting browness that is either my iris my tanned skin my
insides that were never white or cream colored
I’m poking out at the edges like how my neck doesn’t feel good anymore on my pillow
and my dreams are about a dehumidified boiled down sleep
but in the sunlight I’m burning up unevenly
I’m bending left and right to catch it just right
and hear it but not to pinken the ridge or my nose or my ears too much
I like the smell of rinds and trunks and the pale bristles of hair
around the back under the neck of a tomato plant shooting up
in inches I watch so
not a flower in bloom even though it makes a pit stop unfolding a little yellow daffodil that
metamorphosizes into the green predetermined little breast of a tomato
(I’m a steak of girl, waiting)
I want to be echoed before I am like that famed smell of rain before and after the fact
prologue and epilogue mirror and smooth
leaning into the frame just enough to peek in
and then out until the thunder that could just be man made
the lightning flying and reminiscing about catching telephone wires as sparrows
wrapping their feet around the insulation like holding a pulse
and I wish I was strong enough to root back in water without any blood:
I wish any part of me could be a testament, after enough time, to the whole of me.
The earth slips off her knee
avulsion in mind, spins down her lap and cycles out
and out on the floor until it plants its bleached feet
right in her line of sight
(there will be no reconciliation).
(Wiping away the ellipses she is paved with)
In the shower she is dark and diaphanous
like a room with the lights out
but the neighboring street lamp feels its teeth in its mouth and grins;
delirious (Aurelia), her foot slips down the plastic drain
the street lamp’s bent spine like a diver fishes it out.
Her image: two feet miraged
and slivers of her reproduce out into the night
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