OXIDANT | ENGINE : Issue 2

Kristen Rouisse

Amnion

 

Then the water

honed to peaks:

 

bruised-velvet range

and punched moon.

 

Only you

could piece me,

 

soft and bright.

Write a eulogy

 

for my neurons.

Wound this holy

 

sliver of winter

so we’ll always

 

remember it by scar.

How the raging orchestra

 

was nothing

but metronome.

 

How each tick landed

heavier than the last.

 

On Nights I Forget the Mouth Works Both Ways

 

Maybe it’s not

just an exit

 

ramp anticipating

the confetti of headlights

 

or the doe,

deconstructed.

 

If I could

move in reverse

 

would her neck still bow

by the woodline,

 

sickle-slender

and just as hungry?

 

 

 

 

Fin

 

It’s maple

seeds masquerading as wings

 

or faux-bioluminescence;

the ability to glow

 

or glower.

Because we argue

 

in fluids—filthy

hands and filthier noses.

 

Nothing behind that smile

pulled so tight your teeth hurt.

 

Nothing but amber

light and leaving.

Kristen Rouisse is a Florida-based writer who holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of South Florida. Her work has appeared in RHINO, Lunch Ticket, Hobart, and elsewhere.