shannon harvey

I have a new crown of dizzy flies
who smell the dead air nausea.
Ecstatic violence leaps from my arms
to strike many times the ledger
‘til the scales fall scoliotic
at my tired feet.

The flies, the flies,
love when my tongue is drying out
in the cool bedsheet hotel feeling room,
and my throat whimpers and my eyes catch.
Silver instruments prevent the latch.

Should I saw off my hair in braids, give them to the birds?
Arrange them in a heart on the mantle? Behind museum glass?

Bloodless eagle hangs like a mobile
in the cool bedsheet hotel feeling room.
My pelt on the floor, cold.
No strings, no crown stirs the air.

Picture me screeching and keening in that pathetic way:

I’m a person!

But I can’t write any words the size of God
and I can’t cut down the fence from inside the yard.

At the thrift store I bought
a tank top that smells like a baby.
Do I look sexy?
Am I endearing?
Should I crop it?
I’m a person, would you fuck me?
Would you sing in my chorus?