ISSUE TWELVE | SPRING 2019
When the red bird strikes the window, it is me
who takes blame. I do
the autopsy, yank
rough stones from the throat, clay widow
from the heart.
I treat my flesh as clay
for sculpt and smash—red welt of snapped elastic,
red cage for blooming
tumor. I grow uglier
by the day—the truth: I contain a destroyer. Tensions
eased by snifters of toxin; another
succulent to replace the last
“unkillable” thing. I scrub
the daikon pale, smooth the carrot gnarled
by wax paper earth—barrier to perfection,
barrier to any elsehood.
My mortal no, please, look away.
Emily Pittinos is a teaching writer currently living in Boise, ID. An Associate Editor for Poetry Northwest, Pittinos received her MFA from Washington University in St. Louis, where she also served as the Senior Fellow in Poetry. Her recent work appears, or will soon appear, in Michigan Quarterly Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Pinwheel Journal, New England Review, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere.
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