by Kellyanne Fitzgerald
I dreamed that I was small, and my veins
were the size of highways, and we were puttering
around inside, throwing pebbles and listening
to the echo as they hit some vital organ.
What are we doing here, you asked,
and I had no answer. We climbed my tongue
with ropes, and sat at the top, listening
to the words cascading across my teeth.
Red lights stretch the dusk of my heart
like taffy. I am afraid I am a liar
and that the children in my ribcage
just want to be adopted. “Kiss me,”
I suggest, and your pupils shine black,
fingers slipping to grab the sides of my face.
(if this is not love I don’t know what is.)
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