Again I chew the cud before I waste beneath myself.
What was it like to look him in the eye. Ask. What was it like.
Memory enjoys the sacrum, running its black tongues along
stretching tissues. At 6. At 13. At 13, 14. Before melodrama
cancels out the myth of trauma, I bend at the hip, plea for
black eyes, animal eyes, black eyes. In gym my carriage
folds over, bones muscle through skin, a girl tosses
a penny toward me and calls me to fetch. My nickname
is Penny because I picked up coins once in my Jewgirlskin //
because a boy forced his way into my mouth and pulled out
language. Animal language. Slut language. I walk the halls,
hysteria pushes out my body an ecstatic gel. How am I
supposed to auto bio graph the skins of dead identifiers.
Infusoria. Delirious chandeliers of rot. In memory I lift
the deadarms of grief, I bite down on aluminum sheaths,
Mina Loy draws my worm portrait, her hairs fall toward me.
My carriage spills waste. Brown lachrymose blood along crotchlines.
My carriage spills waste. Metabolized yellow. Poor animal
zodiacs. Indecent incidents cradle me to sleep, cold liquids
warm quick against my hundred cunts. My body has a geography
charted to which I am always so loyal. I honor how it goes on
without me, secretes metabolized sky from crown to crotch.
Death demands we remember erasure, prebirth cloth out of which
we can’t pull language. My carriage spills waste. I remember.
The way oceans receive oceans my carriage spills.
© Natalie Eilbert