What more could you ask from me. I carried your kid like a goat until straight god bested me. I didn’t see you, cardplayer, coming. How, then, I could have spared me. We all know some ships need a good, dead woman to start sailing. I’ve always seen how fathers brothers are blinding. I see magic as real as the dog does see. No smoke screens. Ils sont pas des ouvriers mais les oeillères de leurs filles. But I’m not my normie sister, Isemene, who has not even pierced earrings. I dead will bury the dead bodies. How bad a Marxist am me. You don’t know, you can’t read beneath your wings. I should have run forward, into something: You would think, if you were thinking. All this lingering and Lethergy. Just to tell, for telling: I have centuries loved you for secretly running, nights sleeping in Walmart, pet aisle hiding. Youthfully, so Diogenes. The wise mountain of dry food is now cracking. It misses you, as you will miss me. The antlered thingling I ride has two gold coin obol eyes through which to see. I have sat at the bottom of two empty pools I slid in sideways, scraping my feet. I smeared feces over your graffitti. Just kidding. But all that blood red paint everywhere… that was me. I chipped my dog teeths. The thirty tonne swords cleaved in stitches to my body, infected and jingling. It hurts, hurt me: Stepping, speaking, swallowing. Thinking, furrowing, fucking. Too tired, now, to ever be queen. You want to FaceTime goodbye to me. Ring and ring-ring. But I hear the train through the storm so you have already called to me. Sparagmos, all hands on deck of my belly. The hottest feeling shot out of me. I felt your soldiers unsoldering me. Your kind has broken the smallest bones in my Venn Diagram body already. The pressure drops and my ears sing. Burnt sticks, crackling. Cats swatting at embers, night aflaming. A special gust sent from your mother to me. It is my smoke she wants to see. If you told her the truth, baby, you’d be free. Bottomless vases of blood and vaseline. Now they are yours to clean. I am too jealous of every glimmery girl gelding. Take everything. I’ll sprinkle red dust on the us that was us, left out-n-about unholy. Crunched up Saltines. Even tho you said no, I’ll for sure make sure your sentries see. I will give us our own rites with glee. Stop our crust from baking into sun jelly. I am now preparing the meal of me. How to haunt an everything. You who first named the animals: Stopped when you saw me. Couldn’t parse out the nominating speech: An Antigone. Now I never stagger, even on the piss-drunk beach. It is, afterall, my last speech. So I’ll say: I hate my country. Hush the Chorus, now, despot devotee. I’ll go willingly. Or else, your eternity: Get mosquitoed around by the Furies. Into the cave, if you let me. It isn’t pride I’ve been feeling. Still, I am singing: O, O, O, O. Ø is me! Perfectly not in key. On my back, husked to all my belongings. Nothing I wouldn’t want my dead friends to see. Turn to turn and to turn the rock by rocking it slowly. Forever, I will scream. But now, I give the dark my body.
Nel Rupp is a communist and a poet who currently lives in Richmond, Virginia.