• Forthcoming in Vestiges_07: Catachresis

    Harvested inner

    labia sing fish or
    jaunt-placing the
    thinginess of
    early redaction
    over twin impulse of
    mad syntax & every-
    thing else even
    somewhat pelvic
    adjacent. What
    exactly is it you’ve
    put in this small box?

     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

    Even diction

    can be beautiful
    when two are fucking
    apple to salt to
    throated lamb
    crust. Pluck
    it & we shall
    sing of


    another bright
    ethos. The fig.
    The hollow.
    All of the addled.


    At least or
    until the oyster
    of my
    frontsideness is fully
    electrified.

     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

    Rarified wet dream

    Lodged firm in
    mother’s prayer
    book. What
    scrotum pleasure
    to be as half-


    built genitalia lacks
    building. Fidgeting
    cinema a poor
    substitute for squeeze
    of mucus &


    ever-damp. Last-
    minute orgasm in
    clay. Refrigerated
    promiscuousness
    defers all genitive until
    the prime
    minister to soften my


    rattling my linguistic
    oblivion is best
    at doing exactly this.

     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

    Smoothest neon

    faucet mimics
    boys assembling
    yard upon yard of
    waterfowl for
    tendon-


    consumption. Filmic
    laundry sac or
    artificial heart to
    my Tide Pod
    orthodoxy wants to
    sweeten or prick
    but for the archaic


    form of Callas-does
    aspic every single time.

     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

    I am a slut for old-

    school sewing hymen while
    David drains the
    sink of every and all
    hellenized forms of
    aperto
    aperto


    What choral device?
    What Flemish perversion?
    What saintly impasto?
    What flimsy water?
    What Virgil narrowing
    down the throat of it?

     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

    I wander lymphic. Foreclosed of all intercourse. Without any in-grown to speak of. I flounder straight into the radiation of alpha gamma theta. Waxed without waxing. Fucked without adequate. Mustard or syrup. Which litters. Which dwells outside of all. Known and recorded uterine tendencies. I can weather you out. I can. Archery you soft. Of hardly granular. Of hardly glandular. Swarm of Aramaic in the park. Gorging on strawberry jam right up until the moment when the sperm of it. Revolts. Into or out of all hormonal discourse. I stop. In my tracks and pick up the pieces of ablative. Heat window. Broken neck. Strewn on the ground. But with more force. Like a paper. Napkin.

     
     
     
     
     

    To Londonize or to the bruise was the name of the. Game until Francis Peter Paul. Luke. Come and decipher. Grout. Ovarian as lark. A. Wheezes godly. The new gods. The old. & privately everyone. Says. Panic is the best. Cure for premature. Dandelion. Cored. Cured. Coaxed. I live here. In a bombed out factory. The back of your father’s. Station wagon. Feathered. Knuckled. Lavendered with a twist of half-light & puke. Were the young ladies. At the bar able to seat you? Were you able to peel the glass. Off. Of the glass ceiling. National Guardsmen in a slow-moving. Ticker tape parade. One that. Starts from straining and. Ends in Benjamin smoke. Memory of skimming. Milk. Memory of prairie lights recreated on your. Left palm and my right breast. No art could ever. Be more amateurly pollenated than. This.

     

    Ann Pedone’s books include The Medea Notebooks (Etruscan Press, 2023) and The Italian Professor’s Wife (Press 53, 2022). Her poetry, non-fiction, and reviews have been published widely. She has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize multiple times. Her project “Liz” was a finalist for the 2024 Levi’s Prize. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of the journal and small press, αntiphony.

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