“milkdust” by Kate Wilson

there is an ocean of eyeteeth and dirt between us;
we carry the joy of the crows and the marigolds
and the sticky sweet honey blood. i unspool into
ribbon. the moon blooms its quiet fog —
mountains fracture to ash and grass trickles
towards cement. how dizzy; how oil paint; how
murky groundwater. we are dirt, after all —
small testaments to the power of street
lamps and high tides. the trees are stained
with feathers; all swords pointed down. blindfolded
wolves hungry for skylines —
roving against and in conjunction with, feebly
inching towards your crust and eyespills,
nestled between your molars. i become
dead horse                           barn mouth.
how we shed ourselves into one
another. lines between our bodies
are null; you are every good and dirty thing
- & i am seeping for you

Kate Wilson (They/them)
Kate Wilson is the editor of TERSE. Journal, an interview correspondent with Half Mystic, and an assistant editor with Alien Magazine. Their work can be found at Homology Lit, Poets.org, and Parentheses Journal, among others. They cannot do a somersault, but they can be found on Twitter @pasta_slut.