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Poetry / Dalton Day

You say you feel like a needle, dropped.

You don’t say that, exactly, but you feel that, exactly.

Swollen is not what we ever mean.

Moon, instead.

Moon, like, Moon the first time we ever made it there & joy was said but fear wasn’t.

The body can’t attack itself.

I don’t say that, exactly, but I believe that, exactly?

I don’t believe that, exactly, but the wind wants to make a sound when it moves through you.

I can’t hear it.

The body does what it does without asking.

I’m covered in hands, Mountain, & now only some of them are yours.

Dalton Day is a literal dog-person, Pushcart nominee, & MFA candidate in The New Writer's Project at UT Austin. He is the author of the collection Actual Cloud (Saló Press, 2015), as well as the chapbooks­­ Fake Knife (FreezeRay Press, 2015) & To Breathe I’m Too Thin (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2016). His poems have been featured in PANK, Hobart, & Alien Mouth, among others.