I clamp the knife edge in my mouth so I don’t speak. Coming out alone was a death wish he said. You’ll lose your shirt, your shit, your wordy grabbing mouth will drop in the ill phantom fog, he said. It will blind and maim you. De-fang you. Again, you’ll end up shirtless, he said. Wait for your breasts to suddenly uncouple in the Olympic air.

I stand the knife edge against your pupils so you don’t see. I never imagined mutilation or death, but in this moment of hibernation your eyes float separately from your face. The body I once hovered over and clung to, the lung that excused laughter is now cut from the cord.

I clamp the knife edge in my teeth until my silver fillings remind me of me–androidatic, part metal and pins, corrected and safe in the woods without anyone.

You’re courting death he said, you’ll lose your knife and your teeth. He said the animals, they aren’t afraid to take anything, your fillings or his pupils that you leave behind.


About Jacqueline Treiber

Jacqueline Treiber lives in Portland, Oregon where she explores the foggy woods for mushrooms, rocks and inspiration. She has had her work published in Queen Mob's Teahouse, As it Ought to Be's Saturday Poetry Series and Smalldoggies.
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