(not quite) a literary journal


Three Bodies, by Rat Bonehead

Three bodies extend from an elbow
new selves to pour into 
and rip out of.
The only thing I always am is angry.
I am less certain about things these days, 
a pittance paid to me in a way of being,
a gift.

He mumbled about Cicero
as his ribs grew closer to his spine. 
On docks loitered youth,
swishing lake water around in a toothless mouth. 
I see her in pictures and I am certain all that she was has left now.

There is a staircase I know well,
another knew better.
knuckles pulled across brick in an attempt to champion mid-day exhaustion
soporific yet sleepless nights.
It's been a cold year.

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