My Language Drops Like A Snake From the Forked Tongue of Desire

Mathilda Cullen

The margins are not justified. Chromatic unbecoming:
Ice sheets pulled over our heads. There is a people:

We, who have shoveled a great hole in the sky.
Documents strewn over the table. Come again.

Thought the water sunk into us. Porous, meaning:
The slow fade of city into morning. How you drink it

in like any other bird: First the astonish, then, the guilt
of knowing nowhere. Bending is how the sound

goes around a corner. It had properties of shadow
and a taste of iron and told me I precipitated time.

Bumped into a memory on my way to the fridge.
The enjambment of avenues and crosswalk; to

lineate the city, to make it more palatable. A wolf
set loose in this virginia. Skin would begin itching

on contact with water and then fire spread across.
A senate bored of form, organized in couplets. Why

night is a curtain strung between the ordinary. Tongues
wriggling on the ground aching to be embodied. It was

the lyric I spilled all over the table. What sung against
a hole in what home was.