Punk Monk Press/Magazine

Copyright  © 2012 by Kate Ladew

The glove never came off because I never put it on. My fist would not unclench. There is no room for mere fingers, only the whole hand will do. This is how you wanted it — you pressed the back of my hand against your breastbone so I could feel your pulse through my knuckles; you told me there is a reason the heart and the fist are the same size. For the first time, I understand the older people who would sigh with their heads down and claim that whatever they did to me, it was hurting them more than they hurt me. I didn't believe them; I believe them now. I look at you, begging me naked for this, and I ache. But you challenged me to this, so when I slap you, it will be with my bare hand. -- Samuel Snoek-Brown

Dissected Nail clippings stuck in the throat The skeletal-faced doctor died in childbirth Removing and consuming the yelping heart It was turned around and burned with the flaming veggies Taste of salty ashes suck at the hollow tongue. Being Night The feeding of a pale essence to an inhabited loved one marks the mischief of an accused undead Bloated veins exhume the dominant fantasy Widespread Pervasive Crossing a sack of bodies Staring through hungry eyes of an emaciated quality Eating the imaginary spawn of a ruddy corpse.

You are entering a new stage in your life. That’s what she said to the kids gathered in the assembly. I was one of those kids. Teachers dressed in blue robes walked up and down the bleachers. The kids next to me were whispering. I said nothing. I thought about not wanting to leave the school. I thought about how animals didn’t spend hours sitting. It was unnatural. We want to give you the opportunity to take a snapshot of who you were back then. She said that into the microphone. The microphone buzzed really loud at the end of her sentence. It hurt my ears. I wanted to go home. I wanted to eat a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich. I wanted to hug my mom. I wanted this moment to last forever so the next ones wouldn’t come. It was a gamble I was willing to take. That the sum of all the moments that came after this one would be worse rather than better. At some point I would die even. Dying seemed like negative ...

   What the fuck was I thinking? But it was already September. It had been 95 degrees every day. The air was so thick with humidity and industrial grime I thought I was going to drown if I didn’t choke to death first. I’d been driving all around town in a car with a busted AC. I’d been looking for three months.    The apartment was cheap. On the top floor. No upstairs neighbours. It had a balcony- granted the vista was a smog-choked view of the Express Way. It didn’t matter. I had an apartment where I could look down, down over everything. And I love gazing down on things, even really ugly things. Best of all there were Coke machines, snack machines, laundry rooms.    I wouldn’t have to get into my crappy un-air conditioned car for weeks. Save for the occasional odd job which was why I was living in this shit hole in the first place- so I could have odd jobs rather than regular ones.    And this business of over-tanned skeevybat-faced men g...

Poems Hairless poems in the shape of wet yams. Like collars on the throats of girls, forcing them to read. Emptying their stomachs until they hurt with an infinite night. With steel pipes and the noises of a crowd of tobacco. Because I am captive in the pleasures of dust storms, bring me my friends and acquaintances. Oceans Blue salted oceans surrounding lovely Yemen. How many times must I say I don’t know you? For you to roll up and finally dry in my restless mind. Dark as you are I’ve never seen you. Girl shaped like wine, I never wanted you. You refuse not to belong in these snow piles of poetry, ill-fitting and absolutely real.

you're a phantom pulse against my fingers. i'm on fire with it (turns out i know how to burn; my skin can melt, peel, grow red and shiny hard once more). a bit adrift without you- i'm a compass needle, you're due north, all that jazz. lay on my back all day until the sun bleaches out my eyes and imagine clouds painted onto the sky; feel things i probably shouldn't- like veins expanding, shadows playing, stars pulsing. filling the empty cavities of space in between. i'm just playing cardiologist. pretending i can touch hearts; make something useful of them. but you can't keep alive someone who is meant to be dead. bedroom-blues into transparent eyes. you don't look at me, you devour me. i could map the bumps of your teeth all afternoon, but your chest would still be constricted from dust motes and the words you wished you'd said. i've shed so much blood in your name. sometimes i wonder how well you'll be able to remember my face. if two self...