gladly, take the split thumb
open to sky’s soggy breath,
– red spewing by the gillions –
over a dank hole in the dirt six feet done.
waking to cramped shoulders stuck and unstuck
is enough,
as is the witching hour fumbling through the hall,
palming for ghosts, for a wall,
now, scribbling with a hand minus one, numb,
weighing the fairy luck of this near miss
another accident, more blood –
still, survived by nine dangly things winking,
and the cathedral bells,
two lungs sucking second-hand,
and scratching new skin, akin
to both eyes wet with all pleasures above ground
minutes gorged in
the baking sun,
waiting, for words
are a sort of present
unconventionally wrapped in
scurrying pavement ants –
this silence and sporadic
whir of nature is
programmed to separate
self from speaker,
expose the blue-veined organs,
but protect the casing
gripped by gloved palms –
two bloody tongs
opening up just enough
to feel the insides
pulsating, worming about,
marry your fingers and
hover at their heat, swarm
like the black wasp at
the fragrance of sun-skipped skin
and semen trees, the hive –
always dazzling to look at,
unsure how to hold
Maya is the Associate Director of Neumann University’s Writing Center. She received her bachelor’s degree at Saint Joseph’s University where she also served as Editor-in-Chief of Crimson & Gray. Most recently, her work has been featured in Flint Hills Review, In Parentheses, Prime Number Magazine, and Quibble Lit, among others.