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Note To So Sorry For Self

Dora Malech

I hope you like dirt because that’s what you’re getting.
Can’t stop held over or ahead, bloodletting
go. En route to apeshit, look up the old address,
stand on the lawn yelling fill in my blanks. Best
left unsaid: oops. Here’s looking. Yup,
paper cut to the quick is to say quit moping,
my prize pumpkin, my favorite mammal.
Whole town’s seen through the dress rehearsal,
best and brightest dramaturges parsing
the flamingo routine, blistered foot tucking
up into darkness. No use crying over erosion—
all soil’s slipped soil. Hung over my head on
nobody’s shoulders. All skin’s slipped skin,
sure collision—insides out and air wants in.

Dora Malech

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