March 16, 2019

March 16, 2019


Two Poems

by Brighde Moffatt

Still You Ask for Language

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
simple shape.
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.