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A fire ritual
burns hot little graves
for my electrons.
Sear those electrons
I don’t care, my womb
is wordless anyway.
Once I picked out names,
girth, necks, the color
of their irises.
Last of the line, last
of the line, I’ll wear
my dust like petals.
Don’t Make Me Grow
A mustardseed of okayness. We’re here
to know our own goodness. I have barely
cried at all. I spent so much time away
from me that when I finally feel me
I might kill me. I guess you sit
with you and see you do not kill you.
Then you live. No nothing
will give me that okayness.
I want bodies packed
around my body. A layer
is missing. The air is so
dangerous. Blink twice
you’re off the path.
You make graveyards in excess and memorials
for bent stems
but I will know you post-bones:
no chill, no torturer, no hell, no
cold morning after sweaty dream,
only one dream
and one absolute: sky pukes light.
how the cars looked like toys in Massachusetts
on the hill you and Joshua
you felt you floated?
You were correct
so out of your mud bed
under the corncobs
my dream dreamt your bed to begin with
MELISSA BRODER is the author of two collections of poems, most recently Meat Heart (Publishing Genius, 2012). Poems appear or are forthcoming in The Iowa Review, Guernica, FENCE, The Missouri Review, Drunken Boat, et al. Two other poems my Melissa Broder have also appeared on this site.