We stay on our eggs,
lest they live.
That’s how we sleep
in god’s palm,
crushed into dreams,
hatched to see the beauty
of our smothering.
Life is the journey
home of dirt
beneath our fingernails.
The field expands regardless
of being barren.
Fire tiptoes at the periphery,
accruing residue,
orgy on a broomstick
that can’t take off.
There is a caliber of throe
too big to support its corpse.
We rip out our medicine
as the finality approaches,
tail after tail pinned on
Satan, till he faints.
The soul is that viscid space
between dart and corkboard
where thoughts go keelhauled.
There are some planes of impulse
too grand for questioning, but
we were already nostalgic for grass
when the first ape stood upright.
The sky demands its demons
bud to look like us.
Sacrifices rung by rung, a sum
shored up pillaging girls a town over,
because most of ours are too willing.
We squeeze their mother’s
breastmilk down the sink.
________
Sean Kilpatrick studied forensic photography, holds a Master's in writing, is published or forthcoming in: Boston Review, Columbia Poetry Review, evergreen review, NERVE, FENCE, LIT, VICE, BOMB, DIAGRAM, New York Tyrant, Sleepingfish, Obsidian, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, The Quietus, Hobart, young mag, forever mag, The Collidescope, La Petite Zine, Pindeldyboz, Expat Press, tragickal, fluland, Terror House, Jacket2, Exquisite Corpse, Melancholia's Tremulous Dreadlocks, The Malahat Review, Alpha Beat Soup, Safety Propaganda, Misery Tourism, Animal Blood Magazine, Apocalypse Confidential, Countere, and wrote several books.
Sean Kilpatrick is @Sean_Kilpatrick @sean_kilpatrick
Comments