The Waiting Room

i’ve tried / to unwind the length of my shadow / across the field
where we peeled our ankles to wipe our brows / a bare-throated
finch trying to fill the desert clefs / with the hips of newspaper
wads / & i have stood here for six sunfalls / scraping my mouth
clean in the cold / a lacecut membrane with beaded eyes / piking
past a throatful of sand / as if made to douse these hours in wind
/ bodies surrendered to a loose boned fist / pulled inside another
ill-fitted anatomy / where we swallow our bones like pythons &
pray for our names to be called // so how are we supposed to kill
a disease / if no one is there to watch it burn / our figured lungs?

Read more from Issue No. 4 or share on Twitter.