H E R M E N E U T I C C H A O S J O U R N A L
I have them like softer knives,
short expanses of emptiness grown over
with permanent leaves.
it’s funny how in absence
skin makes speed bumps, draws ladder rungs
where rust escaped,
just to turn white
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.
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