Issue 14
Get to Know Me

I take a monomolecular wire,
press it lightly against my throat, then
pull, slicing my flesh in a neat scoop,
as one cleans a cantaloupe rind with a spoon.

This chunk holds my voice,
the words I am not happy.
It all makes a mess at my feet.

And I keep a small child in my brain,
in the way a hoarder can’t part with objects
from her past. This child speaks in sunbursts,
she interrupts others by laughing.

Maybe I am haunted, or crazy.
Maybe thunder is not really my father’s voice,
but a naturally occurring phenomenon
called This is What You Get.