There is a shape to my darkness to my lost bones. I chew the enamel from my chipping teeth, chew on my misfiring synopses. Inside my head I sit in all the empty pews. Light up all my orange candles chanting in the language of fragments. Inside my head the flocking birds, the constant veering wings. The unstoppable vines spinning through my veins. My mouth filling up with unspittable seeds.
Self Portrait as Waterworld
I am your amusement ride. I am tattoos and belly bolts. You will stand in a solitary line. There is a funhouse. I will spurt for you. I will twirl. I will blister the bottoms of your feet. There will be screams and the sounds of propulsion. My running water will sort your bones by size. There is a luminescent light a white like something held inside the body, teeth or bone. The signs, the maps. You are here. Still. Someone always disappears.
-- Carol Berg’s poems are forthcoming or in Weave, Pebble Lake Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, qarrtsiluni, blossombones, and elsewhere. Two chapbooks, Ophelia Unraveling (dancing girl press), and Small Portrait and the Woman Holding A Flood In Her Mouth (Binge Press), are forthcoming.