Indeed it is cheating to spread the baited net! I spread it, however.
When you, liquid-mouthed beggar, leap upstream I'll strangle you.
I turn on my tiny light in a cave, suck moisture from the ceiling +
thereby ruin what structures naturally accumulate.
All full of salt my tongue is hot and ruinous. We shell dioramas
in our mouths. We do not touch. Resemble none other than
my mother. My mission I repeat I'm laughing.
How wretched your pinkie is curled into your fist.
The baby is a broken piece of lightning. The baby falls from me,
pin from hem. She has a pearl in her stomach I cut out.
I wash my poison hands in the rain, worsen what will become
of our weary river, Dearest. Still when you speak I grow
heavy with you. I know no duplicity. I am a pillar of powder.
I know Dalia's name as I know your body
spread within harumphing landscapes heart the size of Iowa,
heat of a city I wouldn't visit god in—
Freya Gibbon lives and teaches in Tuscaloosa, Alabama where she's also finishing an MFA in writing. Other recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in MAKE: A Literary Magazine and The Florida Review.