|by Len Kuntz
The barn slats had seams. I peeked. Light
twisted a thousand gnats and chaff.
You looked so hungry with him.
I haven’t eaten since. In Tucson the lawns
are simply dirt and pebbles. The beige pall
is not a soothing flavor. Neither place nor
color can dissuade me from the fact that
you’re a damn liar.
She draws hands and fingers and nails, hair
follicles and sprouts. Puzzled, the instructor
wants to know where’s the rest—the
torso and penis.
She adds an eyeball, a second one, then
crushes them with two fake thumbs.
She coughs up nickels and dimes and sea
shell horns. She’s seen how the bulimics do
it. She keeps trying until there’s only stale
air, tainted breath. No one’s told her that
sin is sealed inside the soul.
He wants to breastfeed. There are other
ways of living. In some countries the moon
is less shy and animals hold sway. He’s
taken medication before. There have been
mistakes, impairments. But now it’s shelter
he needs—to be coddled and told, “Shhh.”