Issue 7

When my son asks who invented sex/ Britney Spears hits my lips faster than I expect.

Fire moves like someone socking you in the eye and taking your home./ You travel light and learn to duck.

What I hope for is probably impossible: to never return

The air, tasting of lemongrass/ & brine. Your feathers/ on the ground. There: the prize/

The neighbor knocks/ and knocks. I’m unavailable wearing water.

It steps hard in the mud. Its belly full/ of the crop you’d saved

His invention didn’t touch his truth—but what you want can also be your truth.

this was never/ about love if I held you in my mouth like a stone

The first body was a mistake, the second/ a signal from God.

I/ lick loose your braids/ and tremble

Your wound is kept/ exposed. Anyone who looks is invited/ to this marriage.

I wound the languages into my tongue. Clams to spit and salt/ on my molar.