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Meredith Blankinship

The Beetle That Drags the Sun Through High Night



Darkstill I sneak

up on what I’ve lost

The sun arrives

gets used to me


I gave birth once

I didn’t mean to

and it was all pain


The wind sickens, is

sickening  We need clothes

on to do this kind

of talking  You all in the same

bad dream as me


And all the women are leaking

All the women are leaking

Each day repaying their debt


chasing her tail  Blood

rush becoming blush

The blacklick burns

daylight still


I am still fucking a virgin

in a graveyard

in Pennsylvania  Right

below the boiling

point I again unpick


For all my simpering it was

not a small imprint  I’ll be your

despised self-portrait  Standing

in the hallway but by some accounts

you were leaving 


Anguish Interruptus



When the night called for blood you came in

wearing sheets of it. You walked in on me

and all my useless anguishing. You pulled the feathers


that had blocked my mouth, lifted

my head with an examining eye, fingers curling

as the nails scratched new grace


notes. With a way of knowing my want,

a smirk. It is not a matter of pretending

this night is any different than the nights of


silence, the nights begun with hypnosis

and ending with a ravine you can

only transmit by mouth.


One little button is all it takes to understand

invisibility. I wanted to never be seen again. I wanted

to scream until the world became an oubliette


that I could look down into. A dripping faucet

becomes a fountain by persisting.

You knew how to find me and you only


needed my eyes to grant permission,

to acquire reprieve. Never going visible again but for thin scars

scaring me straight on the weekends. This


untimely reprimand. This queering of

the door frames, announcing themselves.


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