.
let her shes dead
.
ghost blue
ma told me to fuck.
fuck you till your mind turned soggy mess. simmering, in the rain, those blue front porch steps.
everyone’s aware, yes, of the ghosts wrapped empty in yarn and broken tailgates.
.
so daily I prepared. dropped food in fire ants
caught that channel changer fallin’ fallin’ breakin’ muscle into disks.
.
young man living in the attic of the ballroom tells me of trampled herbs growin’ in the ceiling.
it was then I knew if I ever dressed, we would go to the park and play some fetch.
.
I felt the anarchy when you wanted to climb from my belly
adored those freckles slowin’ in low, rows
a gamble with eternity has me on house arrest.
I wanna ask you if you meant to resemble my lingerie list.
.
that grime beneath glass. fallin’ winged wing wax
was that I you kept from falling. that soil made of the dying! breath that fucks with foreplay’s identity.
.
It is because I forgot to mention it was that heavy petting I really wanted. hot bones chipped in lettuce.
thorns of pink cactus glue. pits of deviled eggs and busted piñata moons.
.
baby sweet baby, show me your marrow soon. that ghost’s still hidin’ blue
slant snow white
i ambulance hash, strut sequins and stumbles
baby
bird letters and home grown thighs
.
you like the sky. mamas boy
here your tongue, rib roast, daffodils
.
look, you lying in the pool there baby i aint harpooned for you.
.
a magnolia molt mandarin in notes.
slant snow white my straight cake thighs.
.
call my cake cunt darling, its that
tongue. that black bee that rum.
Jillian Mukavetz was born and currently lives in Denver, Colorado. She earned her BA at the University of Denver and is pursuing her MFA at New England College. Her poems have appeared in delirious hem, Thirteen Myna Birds, Otoliths, and a video poem published in Prick ofthe Spindle. She also plays the fiddle and runs an online publication Women’s Quarterly Conversation that features interview profiles on 21st century women writers and their aesthetic diversity.