Say I’m not the only one who drools on the bathroom floor while flossing.

I hold my hands to light as if light could help me understand my hands.

The speculum inside me cranks me as open as I’ve ever been.

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.