by Ellen Webre
I have spent a thousand years
picking myself out of the middle of nowhere
on an empty highway clutching fistfuls
of fireflies to my eyes clawing poppy
blossoms across a belly full of rabbits
I dripped with peppercorns I salted
the earth as if that would make the mud
easier to swallow I buried the creatures
with a pocket watch and a dead fish
and mounds rose up the hills of my body
a congregation of sparrows sang like nightingales
as if that would bring me peace my ghost
is mad Ophelia babbling in swampflower
poltergeisting the highways and waiting
for the next thud wooden dolls slapped
out of my hands brings me walnut shells
to curl into like that could keep me safe
from waking up again in the cheekbone curve
of a boy who does not know the difference
between a raven and a writing desk between
I’m sorry and have some wild almonds
love I picked these myself
you’ll have to kiss me to taste them