My feet are doing all the talking today.  Leaving this tongue, this breath, these lips idle.  Please come, fill my time.  For we know what comes of idle hands.  Please come, check my ticks.  These old forgotten boardwalks squelch in the moist forest mud. I salivate. So many sordid thoughts. I am Water’s plaything, begging,

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You can watch a video of a performance of this poem here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=94rB9NgNuiU This poem was featured in the Brackish: Backwoods Kinship Zine. When a Meat Hen is Ready for Slaughter They can barely walk Much less fly. But watch them try Their wings remember their foremothers Flight They are Bred for consumption. This is

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