Needles, arguments,
how your teeth grow whiskers, how your
eyes fill with zest.

That big, bended, willow tree
on the end of the block
that kind of looks like a witness
to your words sounding thin and unripe.

How growing a new body
is almost like coming home
to a burning house–

but it’s not your house,

It’s the girl’s whose lips you
knew better as a breaker of soft things,
than as a man
who turns off the lights.

You stay here, between a graveyard and a hospital.

You think of praying, you think
of taking a knife to your chest
and killing that girl
in your own home
on your own terms.

The wind clicks, the flies pass by,
your eyes closed and black,
laying in the moonshine.

The house’s foundation cracks
without moving,
without transgression,
in silence.

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Keira Armstrong is the founder of Verum Literary Press. Their work has been published in Healthline Zine, Corporeal Lit, Anti-Heroin Chic, Limelight Review. More at https://keira-armstrong.carrd.co.