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.