by Hunter Little
bodies only grow as wide
as the Consignment World shop pots
he buries them in. both hands clasp
my ceramic cage, pull spines close
to his face, prickled like me, as if to kiss
I have no need for his water
and every second passes.
like a thunderstorm, sunlight does not
determine the set of ribs I will wear
next. Leaves are torn
when propagation becomes purpose
tearing bones from my hands
and every other week a drop
of water under my skin.
