by Catherine Graham
The inverted cry lodged in my chest
trips my sprocket back toward silence.
The spiked mathematical rhythm
that knows more than I see.
Muscle-bomb knowing each tick
clicks to the beat of no footsteps.
Fist-sized, ventricle maps.
Bloodlines in and out. Clean
and not clean, speaks infarction.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 3