what, i am asking, is the scope of what i will lack
stooped in a day grieving my knees grass
the yellow and pink corner stores stale in hungry light
all the bulbs dead stars howling for coins to eat
when will i finally yield-reign like a horse king in a Walmart parking lot
America, my baby, you’ve grown too rotten for me to hold,
i want you the way i want my past
and smelling of love in the culdesac
every lost wall is a throne to my skinny back
bigness, your angry wide mouth
there was a time in Texas i felt less conquered
and could answer the thunder like a champ
coiling two headless snakes in a plastic bag for proof
and waiting to be lullabied
you don’t belong
my white face to the blue
afraid of a red and where it will bleed from
the weather a cartoon and I bright within it
battery bitter, neverending
i want my eyes cracked by fur mountains and
lung rinded in silver sea junk
i want ravage and stigmata from the beak of a predator
and the banshee sing of gunfire
i want loss in a rancid bayou i want a lush water wrecking
i want to bury myself at all the hurt parts, there are secret many
and in the dirt, i softly singing
***
Aimée has her Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow and is represented by Ayla Zuraw-Friedland at the David Black Agency. Aimée lives in North Carolina with her dog Cowboy and is working on her first novel. She is the grand-niece of Beat writer and poet Alexander Trocchi.
***
image: Lindsay Hargrave
Rejection Letters 