Issue 14
Her Disco [2]

Into our fire, our butterfly
Antennae, our water

Boatmen. Our wheat-fields,
      Nonsense, &

We found what was written
On the margins

Of a palimpsest on drift-wood.
      Our sisters of the sea.
Of our sisters.

Our palms
      Burn into definition.

Oh, the bombs that burned us,
Our sea-shell husks of self.

We step out of them
Like syllables.

We are all a bride,
& (then again) not.