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—
with all eyes open—too minuscule to see
the screen door’s wire cage. A pair
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 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.
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
And you face me as you do this,
taking in the whole scene:
My under-spread body pried open
Your flipped up finger
unblemished with afterthoughts of me,
lukewarm and leaving
the slaughter re-composing
the first time a pedophile carved up
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 kimberlyannpriest.com or you can follow her at https://www.facebook.com/kimberlyann.author/ and https://www.instagram.com/kimberlyannpriest.poet/.