the destroyer > text > Jessie Janeshek


There’s a drip-drop of martyrdom
        to the hitchhiking kid
who climbed in your Buick
        begged me to hide
his blood-stained tire iron
made me want to fly shiny
        release a trapeze

        and whenever I bathe
that ragdoll that means us
she dries off hairy, smelling like hay.
        Her cry snags on green clouds
one more day        the creek's zenith
        my need to be held
                      wild Christ on my knees
                      my need for a scythe.

Some of our knives have been stolen, lost lids
        but I still fight the ghost cats
        lonely and angry to wit.
                      So let me scratch this
                      on the back of our death
                      fill our night gloss
                      with hobnails and latitudes.

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