The Iowa Review - - NEWS - Jen­nifer militello

Do not as­phyx­i­ate the bitch in me. Do not turn and nude your teeth. Do not minx the honey­bee. Do not de­velop or ser­e­nade the w(he)e.

You is to hy­dra­tion as blood is to bleed. You is to sys­tem as sin­gle is to me. Do not slot your throat. Don’t su­gar your greed. All the an­ti­bod­ies an­ti­dote, de­bris.

Do not irk or plead or please. Do not friv­o­lous the cylin­dri­cal in me. I am away. As I am here. Do not glare the tem­po­ral, the seize. Do not com-pair me with my

ar­ter­ies. When the re­sult is tis­sue in­jury. When the re­sult is cli­mate change. I have a mileage up in flames. The tem­per­a­tured cells. The spa­tial ear. You come closer to hear­ing

what I sign, you come closer to be­ing what I fear. I do not dare to gloam be­neath the dare. I am cir­cu­la­tory, I am here. The sca­bies of the wrist. The sa­line

of the bite. Long bones ig­nite. In the mar­row cav­i­ties, our needs are met. Si­nuses dense the naked eye. Mus­cle fibers thicken to fit­tings and cogs. Re­flexes

are dogged. Sen­sory branches synapse with light. Do not ap­ply pres­sure too soon or the mem­brane stitches, or the name gl­itches, or the ap­pendage hitches, or the none of us bloom.

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