Instructions for the Twenty-Seventh Year

There is always a crowd against

my skin, aroused & armed

 

with a gray teeth glisten.

Blandness we fight to dress

 

and undress. Was it the man

or the muse that caught me

 

by the roots of my unwashed hair?

My God I will never I will

 

name my fears again & again. Snow

and stains that can’t be swallowed.

 

Why am I always so eager to lick

the throat of anger? Why aspire

 

to a treble of ghosts? Matchbox

triptych: a parrot with human

 

teeth, a man with a mouthful of blue

rubies, and a faceless child drinking

 

from a river running backwards.

Isn’t it all instruction? Sweetness

 

sleeps so close to viciousness.

I only want you, lover,

 

to obey.


Caitlin Scarano is a poet in the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee PhD creative writing program. Her recent poetry is forthcoming or can be found in Chattahoochee Review, Muzzle Magazine, Word Riot, and Five Quarterly. Her first chapbook, The White Dog Year, is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press (2015).

Facebook
Twitter
LinkedIn
Email

SEARCH

MORE IN THIS ISSUE

100 Lies