Writing by Bianca Stone
Pictured: Andrea Rexilius
We have stopped wondering
what to call ourselves
a desert of lapwings
I drive the car down your shoulder out
into the field
stop at your German geothermal plant
to suck up the heat
and I forget our code word
but the seagulls say it over and over
beyond the veil the bikes
are all chained to one another in the rain
the heavy neighbor
with her face like a wheelbarrow
complains about my bottles
the records are arranged alphabetically
the kitchen table opens its extra legs
somewhere something is being scolded
like the first lobster I ever ate
that first took me back to the tank
and lay ten other lobsters on top of me
the heart is boiled in its own ink
I am of course limited
my teeth are the only part of me
that can’t naturally repair themselves
when I look at you
I see the innocuous precipitation
of a miniature storm
raging inside a glass jar
and keep opening the lid
in the dark
to drink
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