by Margaret Saigh

I look up my mom’s nostril when we are
very close & that’s how I know what
real love is. I will lick the dust she tries
to keep out of the kitchen. I will eat the vacuum bag.
Each nostril is a cave, another way into a body
more subtle than sex.
Gouged things pour in and out of me.
I want a closer look so I navigate my browser to google images.
The dog tail is spinning out the air like a compass
tracing circles. There is no aesthetic I’m reaching for.
I think, therefore, I am. God. One time a guy
brought a book of Immanuel Kant
to my house before fucking, oh my god. I’m embarrassed
he came inside me
without asking. After the fact I thought, well
that was a violation, though this is easy
to think you need him. To suck many tongues, and to write
I’m fluent on your Linkedin page. Scabs, caps, raw flour
spilled out; insects, Etruscan vases, taffeta bows
rubbed between fingertips; pith, bombs & a time
we are constantly reminded
is inaugural. Another office filled
in a sour brain. At each turn
a labyrinth
I’m sick of renting

24 January 2021