At night:

 

 

The weight of a man sinks me towards him while I sleep. He makes a word with each of his knuckles: fold. When I say suffered I mean allowed to.

 

O ship, the lineage of your woods & your name is useless.

 

A man [ ] are like a brick [ ] happy anywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lisa Ciccarello recently received her MFA from the University of Arizona where she was a poetry editor at the Sonora Review. She now lives the writing life in Portland, OR. She is really more of a reptile kind of girl.