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​zaphra stupple



tissue


p. 1
I have them like softer knives,
short expanses of emptiness grown over
with permanent leaves.

p. 2
it’s funny how in absence
skin makes speed bumps, draws ladder rungs
where rust escaped,
just to turn white
in apology.

p. 3
I have three on each thigh, near the hip.
they look like gills.
when they were fresh I imagined they could breathe,
some clotted creature with leg lungs faster
than my eyes.










Zaphra Stupple has always loved words. Without them, without the puzzle-process of creation, she shrivels. She lives in Michigan, where she writes as truthfully as she knows how to.