
Body Farm*
Rise: The last
thing you ate
was a small smidge of birthday cake.
Fall: Now you swell
and molder on an army green tarp.
Rise: A raccoon raked
your chest open like a bag of potato chips last night
Fall: but sometimes
your sun-dappled breast still looks like it is….
Rise: While I
was watching, your neighbor, Number 27,
shimmied then popped his bloated tongue pressed into the ground.
Fall: I long to flick
the small spider traversing the length of your belly,
Rise: a monk pressing on
across the desert thirsty, but resigned.
This selection comes from the poetry book, Goodbye Toothless House, available from KATTYWOMPUS PRESS. Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Tierney Bailey.