by Renwick Berchild

Fever, like a wound,
twist of heat and burn,

we use to follow the stars home, we once
thought the Morning Star a god,

Lucifer was once tangled in love,
of Venus hue.

You might mourn me,
but I admit I do not have kin. I do not

know the way to the promise land,
gulls have lost the sea.

My teeth shred flesh, and eat,
the ship I’ll lead to wreck, the ship

should never have left the forest.

Remind me,

I must be tossed, lean into the windy din,
make my meals, house a womb,

hold fire in a matchstick
but not my open palm.

Things are loud, but inside this body
all hope seems gone and slumbering,

inside this woman the dark squeezes
in a quiet so airless, and cruel,

my heart begins to wonder if it is the last
living thing, or if it passed on in its sleep,

slumping towards stars—
forgive me,

its forgotten the night sky.

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