i left her on the side of the road near the rookery in southern indiana. her body was still warm, not as warm as the time she told me she wished she had a thousand teeth but not yet as cold as the time she grew them all at once and stuck them in me. she taught me many things, like how to forget and how to see through the cataracts and necrosis. she kissed my face and told me i was beautiful and boiled me in a metal bin inside the barn and watched as my skin separated from my bones as easily as slicing butter. she assured me i looked prettier this way, all bones and flaying meat and a thousand little exposed teeth i had no idea were in me.

as unlikely in love as

sand is not to toss under the wind

the southside is to sleep at night

stone is to soften against your head

as rain is to not be wet

but the stinging sensation
when you left

in my lifetime i'll bear one billion children from my fervid, heaving womb
one whelp is born with sticky milk sealing its eyes shut
and a razor blade in its paw
my baby cut me up from the inside out
so i smothered him

oh no
cut me
here and
here and
here
i’m
less than
what?
spokes in the rain
a spillover on highway
nowhere
i lapped your scent
til my heart
burst
mangled and
helpless