MOTHERING

The stars are not policemen yet. And the fired light that skelters through your hailstorm ass is still not military grade. Another night, another dotted larklessness. And the knives grow their own wives and children! Where the sky meets the meat in the waves…

I never thought I’d be reduced to eating puppets. In my diary, the future curls around the pages like a car around a tree. The policemen in my city labeled me a kind of “natural gas.” A crab with a dog in its stomach.

Where I live, before we go to sleep, we water the gel-mothered moon.

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An anonymous submission 👍