1. One old soul,
carries the new in its beak.
Two old souls,
and the cardinals droppings,
the hidden mouths they flirt to feed.
A speck among the white blossoms
growing into petaled puddles
to try and not fall below
the tree’s linings.
A street of rivered vomit,
they hold wing-ed,
their feathered thumbs entwined
to keep dry,
2. Handled thigh
among a humid cold.
I thought in tricks,
accommodating your dead arrival.
It’s been 7 years in our tongue’s calculations,
you pushing me here to be a part of the slit
through his hair.
A watering hole,
a landing pad,
a place many fingers must slowly reach around to.
This structure is larger than my determined mass,
the rooms grow nostalgic before the past gains recognition.
I try to let that hold me.
I felt touched for the first time in the way
of not ever
I cannot produce.
3. Left alone are the cigarettes,
a forgotten stain,
the canvass in winter’s first breath.
I breed in the guttural burn of a stranger’s chest.
The madman, I am,
a booze hound for vacancies,
a florescent shine to the face,
I did not recognize you today.
The last time paint lingered on skin
was before the haunting awareness the eyes make
while sketching unanimated objects.
They make creation together,
make them faint together,
the dance they make,
before this madman, I am,
told me to wake.
4. The possession of the handicapped
the bulbous bruised.
I give myself the fight back against his frightened sickness.
His easy tears somehow the forgotten instigations
my body makes with imminent pain.
You pain me
so I place you
behind sprains and old injury made to heal on it’s own.
The two times I broke your flesh,
I meant it
as it was meant to kill me,
to realize how much it hurts
watching thinness transform into your stretching skin.
As I have known
I have spoken,
as it happens,
you will too.
We break our hands on these words once again.
by Jillian Rose Krupp