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