Woke early beige
bedroom autoclave came straddling
my palm ghost-fingered
against the wall.
Pinning my heart against my life
and smiling
at the rope burn. There is so much `
I want to tell you: about the weather
of bygone carpets the way rain jumps
frightened closer to the sea. But I was given
only this narrow mouth and a flightless
borrowed gut and I took nothing. Nothing.
Each morning a set of teeth
sharpening into graveyards incantation
for kneading out the edges. On the other side
of my walled-up fist a voice was howling song
about the questionable placement
of your fonder heart. I imagined
the voice had freckles
some gentle street witch
unwinding lust like a watch.
We have known each other so long:
since we were cells winking
across the meaty breast of the same
stegosaurus. If I can’t take you
for a liar or lover I will take only
what I’ve given. Only my own clumsy
blessed giving. I will call it choice
and it will water me
back to sunlight.
Erin Slaughter is editor and co-founder of literary journal The Hunger, and the author of two poetry chapbooks: GIRLFIRE (dancing girl press, 2018) and Elegy for the Body (Slash Pine Press, 2017). Her first full-length poetry collection is forthcoming from New Rivers Press in 2019. You can find her writing in Prairie Schooner, Passages North, Cosmonauts Avenue, F(r)iction, and elsewhere. Originally from north Texas, she is pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing at Florida State University.