Hand Me The Speculum (Dana Guth)

I too have stolen vitamin capsules 
from the grocery store

and the bruised-up sky shows its hand
lit with grease—

With wisps of frog in my language
I tear through the park and attempt 
to make space for god 

God, today I changed my commute
to stare at his ex-girlfriend.

When I pass her time opens and closes.
And somewhere in the knuckle-rap 
I become a foreign place

like a mountaineer in Brazil who falls off the rock
or a cheating father with a burner phone. 

I remember the dog’s hips 
fluttered with vomit

Now nobody speaks of the drought
and the mayor saps his evil 
into jugs every day

these impulses, these gravity rings,
this cyclical weather.

Somebody grind me
with their shoe.
Somebody tell me—


Dana Guth is a writer and artist based in southern Maine. She recently graduated with an MA in Writing & Publishing from Emerson College. 


image: Lindsay Hargrave