MOT

POEM

BY AARON MAGLOIRE

Death is a day trip. I drowned myself

in the river and then got bored of it.

One can only spend so long small

talking with murk. My dreams, my firm

works, my honey and bread. It is time to

dine again. Enough fucking around.

Watch now, as I emerge fully dry from the water

that could not stomach me, my mouth ablaze

with aphids and blue moths,

my fresh deerskin dress. There is no

myth here. Only the fact of my body

warming as it walks forth

into the clearing. Tell me again,

the name of your god.