ISSUE III

FRANKENSTEIN'S MONSTER GETS DRESSED, CRYING:

don’t look at me yet, my god—

I am still pulling myself together,

knees tangled in your kitchen carpet,

winching my tongue back through

my mouth, scrambling for a shirt

with the hands you cultivated

in your vegetable garden

while you told me, my mother

always said I talked too loud.

While you spun life like the moon

spins tides, slick around the wheel,

you told me my father’s skin
 

was cold with blood clots.
When you sewed your ambition

into my hope, the night hid both of us.

Just give me a second, please. I’ll cover

the body you know too well to love,

slide a bra over my rib, tell you,

if my blood doesn’t warm us
enough, close your eyes,

I can light your whole kitchen on fire.