From the poetry selection curated by Eduardo C. Corral
Holding a suitcase full of feathers, I scan a woman
with a barcode on her neck—my god
is a filth-eater. Tomorrow suckles
my left breast and the bitch
just won’t stop talking. Call me she
of the two faces. Call me she who gobbles
sin. My silence is an animal
dressed in hooks. My body is a gift
like a bowl of coins. Hear me break
the delicate bones of spring. I scrape
my teeth against the tree bark.
I can’t stop inseminating myself.
I’m sorry. I apologize. Excuse me. I beg
for forgiveness. Under the torched
gown of sky, you ride me like a donkey.
And I let you. My screams are nothing
but windows painted shut. In the soft hole
of summer, look how the world makes us
all supplicants. Look how I die wringing
my hands in light.
