Ruptures Begin with the end: my body carries you still, like a reliquary holds death skin to skin, cradles everything built of bones. Another end where insides spill onto a lap: the twist of rib cage, a pelvis flexed to concavity. Spineless, sand gathers into hills, into bellies that line ocean floors & cover themselves with seagrass tongues. Taste salt. Blood. An octopus will beat herself against rocks, consume her own tentacles after birth. This feels familiar: to become consumable, a body in violent decline. A reliquary knows the unreliability of soft tissue, a matter of decomposition time. Begin in the architecture of a wound like that of a shrine, of shelter: fleeting.
-- Stefanie Kirby is a Pushcart nominated poet residing along Colorado’s front range. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Passages North, Portland Review, Clockhouse, Rust+Moth, DIALOGIST, and elsewhere.