No, this is not the last thing
I say. I pull back your fingers the way
you skin a bird: on american
soil, strip a body clean of its name. how to
dissect a dream, or to
play god. even in other cities,
I forget routine: how to count groceries, birthday
money, good grades. like all women,
I want to learn how to
be soft again. how to borrow a clean mouth or a bruise
shaped like a shipwreck.
this is how I will tell you
to believe me. how to swear on something you’ve
never seen. I reach for your hand and pretend
it is mine. how to swallow two bodies at once.
Read more from Issue No. 14 or share on Facebook and Twitter.