This selection, chosen by Guest Curator Kirsten Kowalewski, is from We Know Each Other By Our Wounds by June Marr, released by Animal Heart Press in 2020.
content warning for mention of rape
Metaphor as Privilege
home is a prison made of gingerbread: home is freefalling through ice and fire to land among tangled bedclothes: home is hearth-ash, a blanket of snow, a lit match home is a shared ward in a private facility: home is a pillory with pillows: home is where the hunt ends: a hat-stand with a single hook: soft tissue or a hard sell home is where your papers take you when necessary: home is a mess of mixed intentions: less than wanderlust, a place where caged hearts atrophy, or burst but that’s the worst— unless home’s a hut three day’s walk from the well unless home’s a bomb shelter, shell-shocked and pocked unless home is dust from a busted door, a hide where the hunt ends unless home’s where your papers are hearth-ash: a passport torn, page from page— a rape-stained mat trash and latrines unless home is— a sardine boat, rudderless: a concrete underpass: a route march toward a solitary cell— unless home is a muscle hard-wired for silence—
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