Bridget Talone


Like rabbits with that half-way attitude,

cringing in their habitat,

nervously beheading clover domes.

Don't embellish absence I think, right

before I do. Obsession is an opal

mountain, sleek and growing. I ascend it

slippingly, on hands and knees.

Adoring what I had not wished to adore

I lose again to you, temporarily.

Inside this concession: a perforation.

Hole punched, a channel, a charming yellow mouth.

When Simone killed what she desired

she cried and all that was solid in her body

streamed out. A pearl loosed into alabaster slime.


July. A line of drool. A sickness that is close to death

and then relents. Mossy ropes that bind the waters' chest.

The plucking away of the flower of thought. The eating of cakes

shaped like genitals. I had to keep reframing my curiousity

in order to be close to him. First to disguise any criticism in it

and then to justify my continuing interest, which suggested treachery.

I thought to keep releasing myself in unassuming snakes of air.

The way a song travels at the beach. Pieces of seaweed suspended

in a glum shimmer. He always said to be continued when leaving a room

dooming it to be the only thing I'd expect from ghosts. Repetition

and the odd metallic smack across the heart. The past leeches,

resolutely. A strange will knocks inside my breastplate cracking it

like a wasps nest. And to touch it is to interfere. The heart waters,

insufficient. I write this over my private life.

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