Body-parted, we make diagrams of places not to touch
I don’t like saliva until it’s in her mouth, flashy liquid
She chewed up Mr. Rogers’s clovers, spat them out into my inflammation womb
We burned our fingers with the last two from the matchbook and pressed together: sisters
Angry girls, say all our neck-bearded uncles: assholes, we say of them
‘Bout them teeth, say our mommies and their endless Tampax-lilted Marlboros
Her silver-toothed grid on my wrists
All over on a Sunday we sing about Cinderella-Bitch and I lick her goose-bumped
We make air guitars, our legs woven same by matching Easter best
Bobby’s truck has a mattress in the back: his silver teeth.
Mary says the pills make the moon turn yellow
and roll butter-drenched over.
The sky is a velvet caterpillar.
Our daddies think gray is neon.
We tug our skirts over knees that don’t fit.
When our bellies start to sag like sad planets
we all think we’re the next Virgin Mary for a day.
Sarah cups the place where a womb will be and whispers to fake babies.
We practice Husbands and fried ears.
Tina’s momma says she’s seen Spain but we’ve eaten grave dust.
Chicken-legged, we go looking for skinlets and roots.
I know what you did last night,
Eyelashes down chipped tooth pulsed root.
Brynne Rebele-Henry’s fiction, and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in such journals as The Volta, So to Speak, Adroit, Denver Quarterly, Prairie Schooner, and Fiction International, among other publications. Her book Fleshgraphs is forthcoming from Nightboat Books in 2016. She was born in 1999 and currently lives in Richmond, Virginia.