By Monica Robinson
there is
nothing angelic about the pursuit. when you wake from a bath
tub slumber half out of your mind and find yourself in- coherent and unintelligible, the product of too many spare evenings worn thin on the edge of a knife blade, staring deeply into the dark water, your scrying soul- eyes restless and in- corrigible, you will not be proud. rather, you
will be
Eve all too aware of her nakedness, a thunderstruck punctured breath gone under
in the
incapable
hands of a furious
god, unprepared
for this living you have been forced in- to. you are typing frantic, you are smoke beneath the skin unwary, you are swirled at the bottom of the glass and abandoned reckless for the sweetgum sonnet of a neater verse.
nothing will unspool you like the caress of a ninth life, dipped in the ichor of beings you don’t fully understand, and yet you will drown in it nevertheless, a divining prophet starless, starry-eyed, waterlogged and water- lung-ed, a wing-less angel under duress. this is
where the typed line ends(.)
old friend, the misremembered dream in my back pocket for which i have yet to write an ending. but i will. i will.
Monica Robinson (mrobinsonwrites.com) is a queer experimental poet and artist, mixing mediums to create fresh works of exploratory literature. She is eternally haunted by the rural Midwestern landscape in which she grew up, and she has been writing her brand of the weird and the wild ever since.