FOR THE SEVENTH TIME, THREE OF SWORDS IS OUR FINAL OUTCOME

here, my heart’s crooked teeth & fluorosis

stains. i fizz

in oil, gentlewards & seeking.

we have obtained the house & dog

but the dog has bit us three times

on the face. i’m dancing

scarred in a menswear coat, my wands

all but splinted

in me as faux bones & with the bark

of him, i grow

weary. i know you’ve asked

me if i can play the water-

phone with my fingers & the answer

is only

if they are ringed in real silver, no

green-stain, no fruit-tips — a most

unwelcome card & most

disappointing news has come to us

in the form of a pressure headache & yet

we have the house & the dog;

we are a dream-map, one large mother

of sorrow.

return to ISSUE THREE