Megan Bresnahan
HOTEL STYPTIC
I carry a vessel of brook ice in both hands,
place it just so on the pale coverlet.
Let this be an island.
Alluvial, your hands slur over me—
milk snakes and sea air, an entire coastline.
Let’s ignore false auguries.
Let’s close our mouths finally around talk of wounds.
Let’s room key, night stand, bible, hoarfrost.
Barbiturates, yew bark, last new snow.
Maybe this night’s sleep, exactly here,
will show us where we’re missing. Where to begin
again. Are you listening? The body,
always trembling. The body, bereft.
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