typical beast

— TR Brady

When I sleep I always manage to have a dream
where I touch the hands of the dead and also die,

so I’m growing a new me in the crawlspace
under my house. First I grow the hands.

Then I grow my new feet and my new eyes.
In the dark I stitch myself together and bury

my old parts. Pray over them so they may
learn how to die better than I did.

I become an animal I don’t know. It’s just learning
to live. Its skin pink and soft to bruise. Its movements

green and new. I wonder if it’s too much to ask,
to want to touch the end and come back from it.

Read more from Issue No. 15 or share on Twitter.