Browsing Category Dog Days of Poetry


God of the cuffs, key clenched in the apse your mouth makes. God of dead aphids greening the rose whose thorns furrow me. Call me seed. As in: all I’m good for. Yes, I promise…

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Gone Rogue

In middle school,          our hygiene teacher Mrs. Miller warned                   the girls about rogue sperm:                   they infest all the swimming pools and ponds, they          inhabit the shower (don’t take one after…

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