My tongue is an island pulled by a masked
Lover who smokes a shard of glass in bed.
My cod bone translucent skeleton is
A filter for our life that’s gone before.
My chest is an iron cage of circles,
Cold as a well, blue as the gathering
Rain. I hold my hand to my corpse cheek, my
Fingers crack, an ice flow breaking apart.
My breath is a cloak and dagger cloud that
Repeats a pattern of displaced shadow.
My rags on your floor meld with your marrow,
A transfusion curled up on your ratty
Armchair, its holes cradle my flitting heart,
My limbs move up towards the rocks of you.
Grant Tarbard is the editor of The Screech Owl and co-founder of Resurgant Press. His first collection Yellow Wolf is out now from WK Press.