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Milo Merrill

a wave of troubled water rolls down to my ankles,
washes me in worry, leaves me shaking. as if
paresthesia could reach inside the flesh of my
mind and inhabit the grey matter, abrade me

slowly. my teeth come out when im cattle-prodded
or deluge-stricken. congratulations, your hand is
bleeding, a testament to the ever-softening tissue
of your heart. the choir won’t stop singing

their praises in fahrenheit. the television static
won’t stop singing in the key of glass, broken
CD shards, broken vinyl records. another wasted
youth flies by. i wish the taste on my tongue

were about thirty percent less metallic and about
fifty percent less sour. well, you can only watch the
spiders weave for so long, carrying themselves
arabesque on their twisting silk

strands before they lose themselves in some crevice,
delicate chelicerae trembling, praying desperately in
their makeshift chapels. watch your hand grow fat
with venom and lose it slowly, slowly.

Milo Merrill (he/they) is a trans poet from Northern Oregon. He has been previously published by High Shelf Press and Cathexis Northwest Press. Much of his time is spent hanging out with his dog and flitting from hobby to hobby, finding it impossible to settle on a singular outlet.

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