by Chloe Bryan
Ever since I was a girl,
I knew I wanted to wipe clean
with a damp moth.
I admit it! What a sick relief
bureaucracy can be. And
dreams can be
so spark-plug simple. Hallelujah.
There is no moon
on nights like tomorrow's.
No jug to hold all the ways
you will know
my appliances.
The pitcher plant sexes the exyra
into its bell, and would you look at that:
Another one of those phenomena
I have no adage for,
can only say,
Start scraping to discover
the extent to which the in-
side can feel.
______
Chloe Bryan is a poet and editor living in Roanoke, VA. Her work has appeared in Cream City Review, Variant Lit, HAD, and elsewhere.
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