With every cut of skin,
a circus of blood–
drops trapezing off veins
juggling moles, sun blisters
elephant trunk disconnected
from its rest– an arm
abandoned bodies may also be called
museums, the kind that are abandoned too
and underneath, dancers dancing death
a glow-in-the-dark complaint letter
The moon is my pepper spray
These mountains, they climb me
I am floating over prairie dogs
I am tangled up in trees.
I swing on the scratches–
red twigs splintering your back.
Two erasure poems
scar your chest.
You sweat glittery, uneven tattoos
mosh-pitting your thighs.
Your eyes, a car door slam
during traffic, hitchhiking off road.
When we kiss, I taste a dungeon
of scars– handcuffed and bleeding
a baptismal cut-up.
Aimee Herman 