by Brighde Moffatt
Her words pushing out my own. Slips of tissue strung out
in wet sheets.
To be gutted is to be made uninhabitable.
Tragedy is not a line, not a point on a line, not any
I am a mouthful of asking.
Bits of ocean hung on rib.
She eats salt until
your body is born of storm.
Night empties out from this peeled husk.
A knife made of shale,
a fish cut open.
This question already has an answer.
Brighde Moffat is the editor-in-chief of Hematopoiesis Press. Their work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Rumpus, Nat. Brut., Vulture Bones, and Cosmonauts Avenue.