Poetry by Dorothy Lune


My torso diced him like crowds of mercy, body
as an inhospitable microphone that amplifies colour–

take in my open gut, the smell of blood sausages stuck
together, drowning in maroon paste. Rule three: conceal

your intentions in dream logic, tattoo your enemy’s
eyes a prussian blue, serve them plates of white cheesecake,

smile a normal amount. In french to say seasickness
you say mal de mer–my legs refuses the mandatory

softness of sea, my knees are mobius strips independent
of anatomical requirements, my blood sloshes like dizzy

snails. He diced my torso in my sleep, I am eighths &
fifths & tenths simultaneously— I convulse on a kitchen

floor & grow a bubble in my belly, there are
no times to avenge a past death, only future ones. I

assumed I was the wrong person, ugly &
irregular–I’m counting his bits, his eyes his many hands,

like cylindrical pepper corns disorient his eyes,
delicious & wobbly, I go in for a bite, I play with my food

first–there is an interruption: diamonds circle me,
I fell or I must have, at their feet or he strung me together

with wood glue, I’m not known to lie, maybe
I won’t grow because of it, maybe I don’t have much

in common with boys who dance until
their feet expire, so yellow like newspapers.

Dorothy Lune

Twitter: @LuneDorothy
IG: @dorothylune

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