A poem is running around with a screwdriver stabbing people, poking holes in throats, as if people could ever be trees filled with sap. And the poem is sitting under a spigot, the one shoved into the trunk, and its mouth is open, tongue out, as if drinking blood could ever be the same as licking syrup off a fork. And the poem is caught stabbing an esophagus. It punctures, is punctured, so easily. So am I, when my dead mother calls, sounding like I am a liar. Everything tastes of iron. All of the pennies in my pockets are the same old, same old, same color of uvula, old bile.
About the Author
Court Ludwick is the author of These Strange Bodies (ELJ Editions, 2024) and the founding editor-in-chief of Broken Antler Magazine. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in Archetype, West Trade Review, Stone Circle Review, Full House Literary, Oxford Magazine, Jet Fuel Review, Sweet Tooth, and elsewhere. Find Court on Instagram @courtludwick and on Twitter @courtludwick. Find more of her writing and art on courtlud.com.