/jo varnish

My youngest son holds the crawling, drenched bee, dragging its wings’ skeletal frames across his palm.

/clare welsh

Rouging/ my snarl, I remember my first/ tough bitch

/rebecca martin

this is to say/ I fall in love when I turn my palms/ away from my body.

/kenneth jakubas

my son traces desire like a scope, a bed/ of blood to feed his brain

/jami kimbrell

For me, there’s not much to say./
I don’t have adapted forelimbs. I drove to/ the office and home again.