poetry hotline
I don’t need a gun
I need the dark thick pit
curling around my stomach
to bloom into sweet lilies
I don’t need a gun
I need the stitches you’ve sewn
across your eyes to melt
under the heat of children’s blood
I don’t need a gun
I need the weeping
the wet hollowed wailing
to stop
when the wind comes
& we’re laughing–
like the creatures
we can’t name in the woods
sharp gasps & cackles
breaking against bark.
we summoned the wind &
it carries us
it calls to our souls
to slither into the dark
we made the wind
so that it could unmake us.
let’s encase ourselves
like bugskin
flesh against flesh
until we forget
what blood is
added to the poetry hotline.
she wanted to disappear
but not in the sense of seeking
death – instead like the last
rays of hot yellow sun slipping
into the pacific knowing
the water can’t touch them
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