It’s a fever.
A hand on the throat, squeezing.
Like sweat in all the strangest
corners of the body.
It feels like a fox bite.
A wolf uncoiling in the neck.
Think all the birds falling out of the sky,
nose diving to make nests in your hips.
He turns you into a house, swinging doors
that creek constantly with longing.
Hands not your own.
Heart beating faster than normal.
Like this: not breathing.
Like this: all the oceans falling off the
map into your lungs.
AFTER WE KISSED
I knew that the universe wouldn’t
let me have you. It’s cruel that way.
How it gives you something worth
keeping but tells you you’re not good
enough to keep it. How it starts a
boiling in your gut but eventually
leaves you starving like a bone plucked
naked of the meat. This poem is the poem
about how I lost you before I even had
you. If love were something other than love
it would be a spill on the floor. How it
ruins the carpet. How we do our best to
clean it up before it stains. How it stains
KARESE BURROWS is a twenty-two year old poet and graphic designer from the Bahamas. She’s had works published by Words Dance Publishing, The Rising Phoenix Review, and was published in the inaugural issue of Penstrike Journal. You can visit her Tumblr at fluerishing.tumblr.com.