The evening begins like this
like expired medication.
Curled in a laeotropic ball,
under the exhaustion of the blue comforter,
I struggle to take shape
and breathe like the golam –
press your lips against
the cold clay of my forehead.
I sweat in this dissonance.
I heave my weight into
the water of Lac St. Claire
and disperse into the toxin.
Coiled, at my side, is a stone;
a smoothed anodyne for my breaking.
I am only solid when
I remain still.

J.M. Brandt is mostly from Detroit, MI and Columbia, MO. Although an atheist/LGBT/socialist, she is generally underwhelming and would prefer to quietly knit in the corner. There’s a wife in the mix, too, and she’s terrific. Publications include Illya’s Honey, Barbaric Yawp, and Breadcrumb Scabs.