Britney

I look at my nails growing at the dinner table and I feel nothing

I look at him breathing for me through the screen and I feel but it amounts to

nothing in the face of my unconnected ends

I look to the east, where the mountains used to lay no matter what point I stood at, and I

feel nothing because everything is glass or chewed up brick here and I sense no divining rods

in the land where we are so convinced of our place atop the milk and honey that we do not see

that the mound we’ve settled on is hollow,

and the river still flows over the Siren-struck and missing skin and dead horses,

and I still write things that will make me flinch no matter how close or far away the

retrospection lies. ♦