OXIDANT | ENGINE : Issue 2
Kristen Rouisse
Amnion
Then the water
honed to peaks:
bruised-velvet range
and punched moon.
Only you
could piece me,
soft and bright.
Write a eulogy
for my neurons.
Wound this holy
sliver of winter
so we’ll always
remember it by scar.
How the raging orchestra
was nothing
but metronome.
How each tick landed
heavier than the last.
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On Nights I Forget the Mouth Works Both Ways
Maybe it’s not
just an exit
ramp anticipating
the confetti of headlights
or the doe,
deconstructed.
If I could
move in reverse
would her neck still bow
by the woodline,
sickle-slender
and just as hungry?
Fin
It’s maple
seeds masquerading as wings
or faux-bioluminescence;
the ability to glow
or glower.
Because we argue
in fluids—filthy
hands and filthier noses.
Nothing behind that smile
pulled so tight your teeth hurt.
Nothing but amber
light and leaving.