ISSUE: Summer 2014
I am born. I dream the nightroom of your body,
and in that place, you sing, build me of words,
tell me the story of the locust: how she does not know
herself except in the presence of another. She will split
herself in two, shear the thorax, cast off the shell of herself
and consume what-she-was as afterbirth so that she may live.
Locusts reveal themselves one to another to yet another
like this, crowding the horizon—slick, black, gleaming
from prose to plague. You sing me there in your gloaming.
There, in your nighthouse, you knit me of words. I am born.
Your voice. It is sweet and filled with longing. I rise from the inside,
from the inside to the outside as if to say, I hear you. I am listening.
