Orifice Jones
I am wearing my mother’s wedding ring. I stopped wearing the one
the man I loved gave me because it was only a gift
& I needed to treat it as such. Ornament jams my frequency. All
my jewelry gotta be caught from somewhere. The esophagus is a pipe.
A faucet is present. Drip Season. Hard to lie with everything
hanging out. Any depth is hidden but access is unending. Organic jives
oscillating in more average levels every day. I’m telling
everyone I know about what’s coming in. I am presently more development than research.
Past trials include: The Study of Fissure Maintained. A brief
dance around waste, blood, fear, inspection. The Study of Old Wound Memory.
The practicality of scar, a tombstone, grown over. My fragility
begins with stories of tearing. Same riot-birth of near dismemberment. Then mouth
to feed to teach. I learned no one knows the difference
between closeness or ephemera. I only pass as not passing. Today
I had more smoke than food. I am still getting used to loving
this thing. I am asking are you well? & mean it, from an open place.
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