BY: Kimberly Ann Priest

Wingspan for shouldering witness,
things seen but

weighted with inflection—flicker
of light on wide teeth.  

Synonyms split like fireflies in glass—
surveyed, examined.

Moths collide
with all eyes open—too minuscule to see

the screen door’s wire cage. A pair
of scissors:

heavy are my hands.
Your mouth cut like a newspaper clipping—

brief confirmation of a face
humming like a dial tone, a very clear

connection; the way
he also hummed from ear lobe to artery

to waist—
to the pale skin circumferencing

my labia where the hair is shaved
and the follicles

have never seen the light. I see
the light licking at our roof beams,

its energy worn out
rehearsing re-entry, repeating

do this in remembrance of he. I do.
You wipe

your penis clean with the shirt, discarded,
at the end of our bed

as though the half-hard limb
in your hand is object, sharp, ready to

be sheathed.
And you face me as you do this,

taking in the whole scene:
My under-spread body pried open

enough, slightly.
Your flipped up finger

unblemished with afterthoughts of me,
lukewarm and leaving

the slaughter re-composing
the first time a pedophile carved up

my seams.
I lie in the heart of the afterglow, naked,

both men bisecting
this bomb-shelter night.

Kimberly Ann Priest is the author of White Goat Black Sheep (FLP) and her poetry has appeared in several literary journals including The 3288 Review, riverSedge, Borderlands: The Texas Poetry Review, The West Texas Literary Review, Welter, Ruminate, and The Berkeley Poetry Review. She holds an MFA from New England College. She is assistant professor at MSU, reviewer for NewPages, and editor for the Nimrod International Journal. Her work can be found at or you can follow her at and