“Chewing fruit” by Kristin Withers

when the sun sits inside itself, he hangs in mind & lying
even in my bone hammock — pressing a pulse — everything is
a cipher & of everything he the theme — I was asked to dance,
to make light by my own hands, but they are blushing, they are
brackish, they are hints of penny & gushing mountains — darling,
of other, summers are what itched stitches —
I slid my tongue
into the crevices
where I’d bit

your light moves
in waves — remembers my howl & how I drew
young pinecones from paper bags — where exposure
begs the question of acquaintance — either hurt or go
demented, I remember, as he found me eating bark chips & bleeding —

Kristin K. Withers currently resides in the Pacific Northwest. Disciplined in analytic philosophy, her interests are harbored most broadly in epistemology & the metaphysics of consciousness. She is currently working on a forthcoming concept collection of autoscopic language poetry.