Cut, Never Eaten
Crushed cigarettes rotting in the rafters.
That is the picture I love most. In girls
there is blood coming and going.
Inside them, broth seeks its border like
ink. Tubes doubled like a sycamore’s wing,
little plane spun by the wind. Tell me
how to be cut and never eaten: how
to be riddled, a deck of cards. How to be
club and clover to make the hearts grow fonder.
Neither Amber Nor Rust
How these birches think they can finger the sky.
I promise, I won’t be pretty.
He flushed before we walked out of the bathroom stall
after he cratered our seedhole and beat the shit out of us.
Every man wants his nuts and fruits in silver.
Rubiginous this new ridge, neither amber nor rust.
You want me to be cunt and never eaten?
You want to thin into every oxide hour? Cave yourself.
Unrib the ruptured ticket in your pocket.
Michelle Lewis has written essays and reviews for The Gettysburg Review and Poet Lore, among others. You can find her most recent poetry in Jet Fuel Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, The Feminist Wire, The Indiana Review and The Bennington Review. She is also the author of a forthcoming chapbook, Who Will Be Frenchy? (dancing girl press, Fall 2016). She lives in Maine.