by Shannon Hozinec

No lamplight for this town.

batwings spread, welcome
quiet biographies carved into yucca –
blackened tongues unlock the honey
from behind our knees.

we have forgotten
how to wear shoes

Walking the fortieth led him here.

We must resist ourselves, must
persist in what we think we are owed.

           my lips are
           lottery winners, unfolded maps
                are signing our peace treaty.

Here, we only dance to love songs
heard in mine shafts, and
I slide, I choke, I
put on a dead woman’s lipstick.
womb filled with ash,
my little eye is growing.