“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 again 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, and 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.