Bombus Press

                                                            i am less in this body, more hitching a ride                        on the balloon whose string is now slipping off             a hollow-boned wrist. i ribbon into shapes that fit                        through window screens. leave the room                                                                         peppered with strange polygons / of light.

slipping girl                               dripping girl girl with eyes like a city            half past soaking                    girl with sadness so big it’s a second shadow                              girl     with sadness so big it’s an inch away                  from goddamn tragic

“‘I have been loved,’ she said, ‘by something strange, and it has forgotten me.’”

we are tired of our mothers crying our mothers are tired of being gods

What do you call it when girls keep dying, what do you call it          when your body is a zeppelin? How do you become something other than          wounds?

more animals have died from highways than from bullet wounds. it’s hunting season in my head again

Do you understand what brought you here? Was it the light or the absence of light? The man or what he did. There is a way to measure these things. A syntax. But once you have been touched you cannot be anything else.