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The Bodyexpand_moreReferences to and portrayals of hypocrisy, moral sloth, venery.
Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.
My love swims you, your shoulders like hard sails under the green curls.
He knew what those friends were worth: he knew the girls too.
She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.
The angel lay in his body effervescent as a flake of alabaster.
If life is an open vein, what’s brave about a sleeve-heart, sweetheart?
What’s left is a thumbhouse, an inch of gristle inside skin walls.
God was surrounding the chair, leaves flourishing from a sickly tree.
I feel them slice me open and tug, then I smell my own innards burning.
A simple line of raging wet nearby, how as a kid I pictured the Nile.
In the many pages of the book of love this is only one story.
Our brains interpolate from surrounding images, fooling us.
My brother could Wichita wheelbarrow like I never could.
Not all his children love themselves. Look at little Adrienne.
A car curved left, leapt the curb, and came at us like the line of a bullet.
Dan Gerber reads poems of boyhood, and from the end of his mother’s life.
In that world I was a fish too eager to enter the nets; here, I’m a river.
You can stand on the edge and tremble with fear or risk your life.
Rebecca Lehmann
I want to sleep in a bed next to a man who won’t dream of me all night.
My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.
insomniacs gesturing in a cave of neon light the narrative of their lives
The waves of laughters breach an inlet of cumulus and I’m excited.
I slept but never dreamed there. Nor did I feel the need to court a god.
The night shower is a personal pan-blizzard, a folklore-free zone.
Two surgeons vaulted over a counter to hold open my incisions.
It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration.
I will tell you about the sick. They are ruthless, they are like Attila.
I will tell you about the sick. They are ruthless, they are like Attila.
