The Journal of the Girls

I need to take the top off
one more time.
(“What top?”)
The top of me.

          —Ryann Wahl

She took the skin off the rock. Sat up
from sunbathing to watch a man running sideways
her hair soft lighter fluid
I know there is no love there
in the careful observation
a violet fog rolling up past her calves
she bites her wrist-vein, quicksilver, brings
it to the mouth of the grass
void me
the steepness of breath inside
I know this glass body
diamond bone
it is mine; also, yours; ours,
I recognize it all
You caught the bright in your center
You clot the finite in your
painted nails. So temporary. Silk
eyelashes, will you watch for me
In a sheet tent, here is the flashlight
divine hair of your sister cut
into kidney-shapes
Two hearts in hot ringlets
Here in this humid orchestra
she plays with her fingers:
rabbit shadow-puppets
in between knuckle-webbing the smell
of apple cores
you both should be rising
and twinkling against the cotton
should be braiding the pulp
of your leftover tea
why is no one moving
is this the silhouette of a burial
or are we still swimming
in the lake beside Pennsylvania
Kelly Forsythe


Kelly Forsythe

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