TIME, IN NAMES AND FOUND THINGS
We don’t name our girls with things that can die:
GLEAMING LOVERS ON DEATH ROW
Mouth acts as a light snare
and I finger the sun right out of you
your secret becomes oral floss of
the meat that I suck
from your fingers where you have
hidden old receipts and the only
letter from your mother where
she says she is proud
we say we can fill each other up
even when we just are marrow and
hair I trust that we mean
even if our bodies speak to
the nothingness that they
dare to occupy.
YOUNG AND GAUNT WOLVES
Remember these of summer-set eves:
grain silos as thrones, a sky turned
inked and toiled—sky space as fresh
earth, an obsidian lake.
Fireballs sit steady on
Albertan farmland; this is
a quip about German
Mennonites and scorched
Breath is hummed with cicada wings
beating, fog rolling into
lungs with smoke stack pillars,
each new hand occupying the other or
a shared cigarillo.
Your girl tastes like limes
and cornflakes, cheeks
shivering a thousand
shades of pink with
a tongue just as greedy. Our eyes act
as anchors to keep the blue
collar town alive,
until we have the means to raze it
to the ground.
Moira J. is an agender poet from Dził Łigai Sian N’dee (White Mountain Apache Nation) and currently lives in Boston. Their work is published/forthcoming in Phoebe Journal, The Shallow Ends, Blue Fifth Review, Salt Hill Journal, and more. They are a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. You can find them on Twitter @moira__j, or read their work at www.moiraj.com.