June Strawberry Moon

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.