You point to the pheasant. She’s sad, too. You’re both sad together.
But all he wants to know, my gorgeous lover of words,/dirt, puddles, and the sky, is why I “broke” his fall at all
The members of my online poetry workshop gear up to discuss sexual assaults of yore
This is where, in the poem,/I say that I am descended/from these motherfuckers
A Ferret, a Stoat, and a Polecat//go into a bar. Wait, it isn’t that kind/of poem.
Is she a victim or a villainess?/ You remember only a storm of swords and flame, /a flash of the white of winter, /the blue of a dragon’s eye.
She doesn’t know what the snow does/
to her pipes. But you do.
a lynch mob. a defense mob. a gunshot. hate. a gunshot. hate. a deputizing of hundreds.
All meat is tenderized
the same way. /Good meat
is beat lifeless before you eat.
lamps of summer in galaxy gray, we touch & go