I confess I don’t really know
what I’m doing, fumbling with
the buttons carved of antelope horn
or mother of pearl, so slippery between
my wet fingers. I could tell you what
I’ve seen & everything I heard, a trail
of bubbles left by an otter underwater,
a chine. Small paintings of eyes to remind
the wearers of a beloved who would always
be secret. There was once something called
vagina badges that pilgrims wore to lure
evil spirits away. You know how Julian
of Norwich received showings of God?
Well, this whole time, that’s all I was trying
to say, vagrant & begging. But you didn’t want
to hear it. I have a trick. Like when the crazy
girlfriend shows up & throws all your records
into the street. The logic of the nonsequitur
lies in its disobedience. You kissed me
beside the wall of melted-down handguns,
remember? Blood from your nostrils
like wisps of red hair. Nipples: x x
like exit wounds in your bare chest.
HEATHEN (HEATHER DERR-SMITH) is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop with an MFA in Poetry and the author of five books, most recently Thrust (Persea Books, Winner of Lexi Rudnitsky Prize, 2018) and Outskirts (University of Akron Press, 2023). Their work has also been published in Prairie Schooner, Fence, and Missouri Review. She teaches Creative Writing at a high school in the Shenandoah Valley and likes to hike the Appalachian Trail, especially when the rhododendrons make a tunnel of blooms.
