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Literature Text
you, father,
have an eel where a hand
should be
and an oilslick for a mouth.
I am not so deranged as to
want you,
that soggy vitriol that you
call "passion"—
your worm of a tongue
should stay behind your teeth, those
clacking brutes.
if it were up to me, I'd
cut you off at the root
so that you'd keep your slimy tentacles
away from my skin
have an eel where a hand
should be
and an oilslick for a mouth.
I am not so deranged as to
want you,
that soggy vitriol that you
call "passion"—
your worm of a tongue
should stay behind your teeth, those
clacking brutes.
if it were up to me, I'd
cut you off at the root
so that you'd keep your slimy tentacles
away from my skin
Literature
The Daily Sentence Project
She shifts her thighs to the same angles
where tectonic plates exchange glances.
The infant in her arms coos in haiku,
the phone crouching on her shoulder
barking in blank verse and bank terms;
where has the affection been displaced?
Perhaps the both of them are three full-
time jobs past romance and two cases
of chickenpox past the seven-year-itch
to be able to tell that dishwater softens
and oatmeal baths becalm their hands.
The kitchen tile is a haphazardous haven
for cloven shoes. She prefers slip-ons.
Literature
He Will Be
He will be shorter than you would like. He will have hair that curls if he grows it long, but he won't that summer. He will act like he's interested, but shy. He will not actually be shy. He will make you nervous for a month before he finally asks you to watch a movie with him. He'll choose the movie and you'll hate it. He will hate national parks but he'll know a lot about Shakespeare and he will seem so much older than you. He will stop calling in the middle of the summer, around the time your friends get back from Europe. He will call you again to apologize and you won't know what to say. He will lie to you. He will kiss you again and he w
Literature
Lover
There are quiet things here.
I am trying to catch the voice
Of your fingers turning
Frequented pages,
Or the soft inhale
Of beauty within your
Freckled, fragile throat.
I would fill you with noise
If you would spend
Every night with me
Here in this silence.
We would wake on
Cold linoleum floors,
My hand cradling
Your neck with its
Soft, fine hairs and I
Would coax prayers from
Your vocal chords
With the order of
Iridescent spider webs.
I would never waste a word
On anyone but you.
I would record your heartbeats
And the muted piano recollection
Of your eyelashes
Grazing cheekbones
To play them for you
When lonelin
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Comments40
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This bites in a way that I can't explain how glorious it is. To feel that pulse of anger under each syllable is just...relief. I'm sorry you've had this, but I'm glad you can write it so well.