I want this poem to be cut-up and stitched into something taxidermists would be
proud of.
Do not vanish into your organs, little bunny. Long for no survivors. This
thought relies on taut skin and a necrotic flush of fur.
We wrote in our journals
eat me─ or, at least, parts of me.
She sold me before I was out of her womb. My ear was already half-bitten. Milk
teeth sore with weak. I lost them on a bed of stones. Do you remember shards of
gems the color of opal? Gumming at centipedes and millipedes, my heart forlorn
with wilted petals.
I want this poem to know exactly what its innards look like.
I want the openness of skeletons. See this? A curve of precise scalpels, steel-
plucked iris.
My bunny-vision in ultraviolet. A frightened white eye. A pupil of stun.
Stunned, little bunny, stun.
I want to turn my tongue inside out. Taste backwards.
Matina L. Stamatakis is a writer and visual poet currently residing in upstate New York. Some of her most recent works have been featured in Horseles Review, Big Bridge, Switched-On Gutenberg, Eratio and Sprung.
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