| From the Archive

Firstborn, or, the Table

Mary Anna Dunn

My heels are strapped in etherized stirrups
and my feelings float around —
while a dilated moon brings the high tide
crashing to shore and
back out again, 
I hear scissors cut the 
virgin skin.

Fluorescent bulbs blank my numb
pupils. Mirrors around me,
watching me, for me to see
my eyes dilating, mirrors
watching me, for me to see
my eyes close

tight and hard. My lids close to see
lunatic stars flashing blue/white.
I tighten my lids until opened. And
squint to see a child’s
bloody ass.

From phoebe 1.1, Art by Jim Rosenbluth

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