Salish & Sibir

R. Stempel

at least twenty feet not my own at least 

twenty-seven hands

yours 

& mine, 

entangled—

the seas are a cradle for scraps beyond explanation

*

I told you my mom didn’t keep my baby teeth, which explains 

my preoccupation with throwing myself away

Ankles & wrists weather easily, our collagen’s concerned

with bounciness elsewhere

Passable: this noncelebrity frame—

now my best bet is cryptic, my body parting 

under a death sky

*

My blood spilt like a second-world faucet & they blamed the oil industry

(I’d over one-hundred pounds of it; I couldn’t bare the weight)

And some twenty-odd pounds of bone! I know, I know, I know I’m obsessed 

with young like a good archetype.

I’m obsessed 

with slender like a bad joke. 

I want to weigh the sea & gauge 

my options for amputation