Poetry

by Joshua Clayton

Keep the Pips
Spores

I’m hearing drills and it’s midnight.

When I feel like flattening something

 

I clear space on the floor and press

my whole front down. I have nobody

 

to confess to that under my belly here

was where I knocked and spilled six cups

 

of blackest red, three cups of black-

laced rum. This wood has done so well

 

to swallow my secrets: I would kiss it

thank you but I’ve forgotten how. I sleep

 

with my lips splayed open so I can skim

and chew the wet dead skin in the morning.

 

My tongue is grayer than a winter pelt.

Somehow the mantle candles have spread

 

cherry wax over the wall like a sneeze,

a ring of rose rust, a hardy sea spray

 

of blood flung from my nails. Most days

I scratch myself in fits. The blood has no

 

taste, but once I’m done I arrange my body

the best for my mouth to get at the wounds.

Joshua Clayton is a PhD candidate in English at the University of Cambridge. Poems of his have appeared or are forthcoming in, among other places, Gigantic Sequins, Barren Magazine, The Cardiff Review, and The Journal.

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