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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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