By Michelle Lewis
Will tonight be every night?
Outside the kick-out door
saying if the dark
then so can I, saying let someone return.
Saying this looks like leave him but is really suck him.
The dark is the best of all the ruptures. Here after the movie where they
flew off the cliff it was nothing like drowning, which is
the best way, the hair’s soft waltz, pocketful of whore-y posies.
How could I
know? (Don’t know Eames don’t know aioli.)
O body, you are fresh as a daisy,
a slow rolling moss outside the drop that’s bottomed.
And there it is:
flesh is merely flesh and you can empty it. You can roll
me over. Decide what is too little or too much.
Decide the shine of the nut
or the meat it tosses.
Score it.
See how the sweetjuice takes the load off.
See the prism giving up its hues.
Fix yourself / take your gulch and plunge your fixit in.
You can find some of Michelle’s most recent poetry in Spoon River Poetry Review, Jet Fuel Review, The Feminist Wire, Requited (March 2016), The Indiana Review (Summer 2016) and The Bennington Review (Fall/Winter 2016). She is also the author of a forthcoming chapbook, Who Will Be Frenchy? (dancing girl press, Fall 2016). She lives in Maine.
