Poetry and I had a spat, but we’ll soon fuck each others’ brains out.

A book that won’t sell:

A Womb of One’s Own: Leading the Independent Embryonic Life.

Today I will wear my breasts like two prize-winning gourds from the state fair.

Parasitic flies bore into crickets as they play their mating song.

(and)

If only I could preserve this moment as an encaustic collage.

Two-hundred seventy cubic miles of water in living creatures.

A gnat rests on my monitor and flutters its wings now and again.

My hair, unwoven, remembers how it feels to be held in a braid.

Today: Another dreamless night followed by a morning full of dreams.

(and)

Mayo: You’re made of soy but don’t let on to anyone that it’s so.

Orange—I pull your peel off in strips until it lies there: a blossom.

Avocado—why my pleasure at scooping out what’s rotten in you?