Fey Animus

engaged in autotrophy as
a self-sustaining pain
while driving up from tupelo
carrying a hitchhiker
holding failing limbs
stopping at
the occasional diner
for a smoke and
heavily caffeinated coffee.
read him, read her
she doubled as his being
naked except for a suicide
that was squeezed into the
mask of a surgeon.

thunder sings slowly as the turnpike
bends to the automobiles.
the brightness of the watercolors
muddled and burned in the downfall,
laying exhausted at the end of the day.

she showed him the result
and the faces were messy,
nestled on one side in an unknown pattern:
“my eyes. i searched by saying so,” he replied.

while driving:
“what else may i do to you?” she replied.
they checked into the motel
the neon was eliminated.
the mattress breathed.
forced by gravity, the soft blankets
collapsed around them.
a day done.
drive more tomorrow.
they withdrew completely.

a timeline says these are the
individuals that are involved:
extricating her from the equation.
“a sundial is inside you,” he replied
“i licked my lips and other stuff,” she countered,
“your breath is humiliating – so familiar to me and the moon.
the glitter of banned light slams
the city.”

eventually his tongue atrophied
as shown in the stranger’s films:
images rising
spun around quickly.
reminiscent of blackened paintings.

By Peter Marra


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