I took the form of so much noise––
blip, tussle, squeam. it seems as though
my room, however temporary, the room
pops bodily––rheumatism, arthritic and
brutal. in a crawlspace, in many pits of
blotted dirt, you wallow along me, request
for contact, with an implication of clutching
under my dresser. I fling back a crystal whiskey
decanter, I can't believe you––not even your
endearing hair behind the earlobule, behind a
neck susceptible, the disease arose, soldered me
to a cylinder of beads, dusted lozenge. I shelled
off these human clothes, horrid and mortal,
like an emotion, inarticulate and with spark.
Emily Corwin is a recent graduate of the MFA program at Indiana University, as well as the former poetry editor of Indiana Review. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Black Warrior Review, Ninth Letter, New South, Yemassee, Gigantic Sequins, THRUSH, and elsewhere. She has two chapbooks, My Tall Handsome (Brain Mill Press) and darkling (Platypus Press) which were published in 2016. Her first full-length collection, tenderling was just released from Stalking Horse Press.