GH O TI

f i sh

Issue No. 2

Powder

Pluck away my feathers, Mother, they weigh me down.
Allow the surgeon to make incisions in my breasts

and scrape clean the yellow pustules of fat.
Leave my nipples intact for now. Pink corks float on water.

Strip the thick striations that muscle my back,
the meaty slabs that round my ass into clay bowls.

Carve away excess layers from my thighs.
Snip the sex petals threatening to bloom between them.

When I am perfected, whittled down to radiant bone,
a calcified arc hollow and thin,

pick up the mortar and pestle, Mother.
Grind me into powder as fine as white sand.

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