by Elli Samuels
Never mind what you think about fire.
The cold it can spew. The impulse to run.
We women have this thing we call guts,
as much pathos as comes from death, unexpected.
I’ll show you where to bite down our skin.
A serpent repeating until we believe.
Listen, I am a junkie of suffering.
Give me guilt I can squeeze. I’ll shape it to tears.
But thick skin. The non-bitter kind.
The equinox celebrates seeds.
I will tame how I bleed,
sweet mosquito with secret teeth.
***
Elli Samuels is a poet whose work has been anthologized and published in numerous literary journals including Maudlin House, Pif Magazine, and Tulsa Review. A cookbook author, runner, and yogi, Samuels just relocated to Arkansas.
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