Snap crackle pop gets a BA by Tuesday Smith

SNAP CRACKLE POP GETS A BA

TUESDAY SMITH

MAIDEN GRASS

look mother. I have your hands the thin ridge of toes Tehran at the east heel the mole of Fars beneath the hangnail. Even the barley of your laugh grows along this throat.

But you say something in my field cannot that I have lost the taste for your god your gardens your gracious arsenal of acquiescence.

You accuse like a brick whose powers are to bash and be broken that I am a woman of the west bridge the brown bells of my body clang at a different hour that I find lust is a fist not knees of lilies that I need and you knead. but it is not the same that my shame will last for generations all because she ate the edge of things and I only the centers.

She cuts like a metal salad, still good for you even as it rips at the belly I am too tender unable to carry such sacred bitter water this daughter will leave the table cold it will empty chairs rattle rugs and fail to catch those Christ nails that somehow show how strong she is even while lying down.