By: Katarina Bishop
Is it seventh providence raining from the globe?
When it's sick
there must be
too many lovers
relinquishing daytime arguments.
When I've held your flus inside of me,
the friendly antigens in my necessary organs,
like ziploc containers have pounds of cocaine in them
somewhere in the hotter countries.
Asexual reproduction has kept me alone this year.
I keep thinking Darwin, Aristotle,
lead me to hell if you've got the golden ticket
to murder the Minotaur,
to only genocide the lost causes,
but I'm not sure
if I want to drink the leftover blood anymore.
Like when you were friends
with absinthe for a year straight.
Imbrunire—the girls' eyes going for plum instead of teacake frosting.
Fiction is safe,
profane alone is safe, but
"Listen, are you sure you should be doing that?"
I can focus on the sandpaper
of roofer shingles
and I'll be safe.
it might be better
if I sell my guns to steadier shooters,
anarchist Girl Scouts,
to those who do not shudder under the fog,
debating topics like how we gave Native Americans
smallpoxed blankets in return for promised land.