cunt. bomb.
Coming Soon: February 2019
Featured Work:
A Spider
Poem for my Mother
Poem for my Mother
A pregnant spider scurried across my shin
today and I did not kill it. I wondered at my
control to not gag-reflex, murder the thing.
today and I did not kill it. I wondered at my
control to not gag-reflex, murder the thing.
Usually, spindle-legged creatures, with all
their movement and silence spurn me to
their movement and silence spurn me to
hatred. I don’t like being touched without
permission. But she, she was a thing of beauty.
Womb-swollen and desperate. Or in the very
permission. But she, she was a thing of beauty.
Womb-swollen and desperate. Or in the very
least lost. No hair, just svelte and dangerously
calm. She reminded me of you. Reminded me
calm. She reminded me of you. Reminded me
of a memory I allowed to let slide down my
throat, web-soft and translucent.
throat, web-soft and translucent.
The day my father choked your neck,
your throat was a pregnant shock of red, eyes
your throat was a pregnant shock of red, eyes
bulging and then soft again when he let
you loose. Or did you wrangle free?
you loose. Or did you wrangle free?
I saw a spider in the corner of the kitchen.
Right above your head, where he held it
and it dented the plaster.
Right above your head, where he held it
and it dented the plaster.
Breathless, suspended and looking nowhere.
Who can look anywhere when being strangled?
He did not. You did not look at me.
He did not. You did not look at me.
But I saw it all. And that tiny witness holding
space, frozen as to not be noticed. To not be
space, frozen as to not be noticed. To not be
crushed, looked on. Guilty. Innocent.
A thing that didn’t understand
how humans can be so irresponsibly cruel.
how humans can be so irresponsibly cruel.