They come to me half done.
I pierce the tender fissure
where their thighs join their bodies;
juices don’t run clear,
instead, anhydrous ammonia,
propane, characters from Grand Theft Auto
San Andreas bleeding the listless gray
of the Grapevine sky.
It pours out thick as gravy
made from a roux I don’t quite understand
then thin as ice melting
at the bottom of my gin and tonic
I swirl. Its legs wash up in a cosine wave,
so I remember hating school,
a succession of awful days
dingy T-shirts hung by clothes pins
along a line to dry,
sun trying hard to bleach out Rorschach blot armpit stains.
Teachers spoke; all the while milky heaven curdled.
Everything I ever really said was inside,
a mesentery holding my shape and is.
Nancy Devine teaches high school English in Grand Forks, North Dakota where she lives. Her poetry, short fiction and essays have appeared in online and print journals. She is @nancydevine on Twitter.
Sarah B. Boyle
Before You Look at the Plan,
The Poet’s Ancient Cursor
from Good Horse
KJ Hannah Greenberg
Politics, Like Sardines