Olivia Gatwood
Some girls aren’t born they burst
after Kaveh Akbar
not from their mothers
but some other kind of milky and muted house coated in blubber
they claw through the fatty husk or chew or peel
arrive somewhere i imagine a field or a city or next to a pack of sleeping coyotes
and gurgle up a voice like wet metal which they spin and spin
when they find themselves apologizing they stop apologizing
these girls unravel into something whole
they do not do as demanded
when they cry they split the windshield use the glass to clean the dead skin beneath their nails
the sadness becomes rage becomes song which lives like bloody yolk in their stomachs
they suck on pennies and crash parties
these girls are so loud they forget they were ever just a newborn infant sack of reliant muscle
they are desperate to fight and be fought
sometimes one will press the knife against his throat and then her own
sometimes one will swell like a tumor with teeth and hair a face
when this happens they all feel it gather and chant
not for the taming of their sister
but the sanity the wish for her anchored and cradled brain