ISSUE III
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22 SIENNA SOLSTICE<br />
You Don’t Have to Take Orders from the Moon<br />
Jaina Cipriano<br />
<strong>ISSUE</strong> <strong>III</strong> 23<br />
exhale<br />
Charlotte Cao<br />
the rat gnaws<br />
at my ribs<br />
and when its<br />
flattened head<br />
rams itself against<br />
the fat of<br />
my underbelly<br />
i pitch myself, forward,<br />
hitch my lungs to<br />
the hook that hangs<br />
at the crest of my chest<br />
and when<br />
i can feel the bitter tip<br />
crimp the muscle,<br />
like a needle,<br />
but there is no stitching, i<br />
crumple<br />
and press the air<br />
out in the way<br />
quicksand would engulf my every part:<br />
slow as old honey then<br />
rapid<br />
rushing<br />
as<br />
my limbs jerk, convulse, quiver, and<br />
i think an arrow has shot<br />
down the narrow<br />
pinprick<br />
of my diaphragm,<br />
because i am<br />
clutching at air,<br />
and the<br />
wood splinters,<br />
and years later,<br />
i will still<br />
be prying little<br />
shards,<br />
thin as breath,<br />
out<br />
and<br />
my rat,<br />
ravenous,<br />
will gouge<br />
its teeth into what<br />
i have lost behind,<br />
what has<br />
yet to be<br />
purged.
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