what adheres me to you is not that you are glue, but that you are the idea of sticking to something. the possibility that i will one day become tinfoil & stick to you while holding all of you all inside of me, holding as adherence, the idea of glue. if i were your blood, i’d encourage you to cut your finger, slicing onions, so that after i dried, i could look at the world while holding your skin together. there is something to be said about trying to sew myself to your feet because i fancy myself as your shadow. it says sticky. you are a state of magic, like the way your blood swims through your body while you are still asleep as sleep, like the way you shoot through a subway tunnel by just sitting, still as a tattoo, because tattoos can’t make shadows, but they do: go where you do, without ever moving from above the blood that they are hiding. the wind is invisible blood running through the veins of this city, you say to me. the wind is invisible blood running through the veins of this city, i repeat at you as the people begin to eat sticks of glue.
M.G. Martin is the author of One For None (Ink., 2010). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in PANK, Mud Luscious, >kill author & Everyday Genius, among others. M.G. lives in Booklyn with the lady poet, Tess Patalano & the lady dog, Ihu. Find him at mgmartin.tumblr.com & @themgmartin.
What Horse Hooves Turn Into After the Horse is Over