Melissa Severin

This is alchemy–
syllables of name, heat and Kevlar, linear time. I know
the sorrowful mysteries need an excuse

to interrupt the sound of 3D printing. Lull fit
for a conversational juggernaut. What’s your ritual?
What’s my ritual?

Auto-tuned longing has been done.
As has eyebrowless portraiture.
Just now I thought all the music stopped but

it’s the lake gone lead. Meaning
we can all leave the house
without mascara. I am careful

with pedestrians—turning the corner is a wilderness.
There are always secrets.
Transmutations.

What type of close do you need today?




Gardening, not architecture

We are dirt and can’t keep long nails clean
when ringing the morning bells.

Soil curved in cuticles maps out of reach places. Bury me
in a forged thing—a mallet to the body skirt. Strike

the belt. I want my lips to bleed out
sound as if the beat could plant a seed

under the sternum—make my heart green
opal splintering with vibration.

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