the surgical glue in my sister’s sewn jaw. the single
meat, the lipid unsought, in my styrofoam box. the
tourmaline stone, electro-formed, rutilated quartz
and druzy slice. the pomelo tangled, a tablespoon of
grenadine in my hurricane, down the face of my silk
faille, dove-coloured and gummed. the pharmaceutical
running low, to the ground, running out, smelling of
vinegar, unhelpful, expired. I aspire to be worshipped,
coveted like a coven of junegrass, discoloured cartilage
out the oven. I am arranged, prostrate, under a cylinder,
lucent and pocked. I lock myself up for the year—no
longer a sister, not a person, not able to be in motion,
red florid, an angiosperm, a morsel of sucrose,
erotic as an eye dropper, almost letting slip.
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.