Sprig
Who owns the snow? A dozen sown corpses
underwater falling slow, slowly down
below the bowel. Here and there a whale
fall. The head aches. A hagfish. These hatreds
are the hardest things to be trashed, you know.
Jung’s shadow. I am stuck between a rock
and a harpoon. Little blood in the mold.
By saunas of nausea a sodden ghost
grips a sprig, a flick of green in the mist.
The/rap/its said many times over—mine
said this: tell me, what sign posts do you sea
on this terrain you said needs retrain-ing?
Crack open the door, throw slats in the wound.
Talking—the bloomiest lobotomies.
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Cameron Lovejoy is the editor and publisher at Tilted House, a small press in New Orleans. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Xavier Review, North Dakota Quarterly, DIAGRAM, Barrelhouse, Bayou Magazine, and elsewhere.