this ghost-froth from my membrane.
& veil-clung as bubbles.
my fortune. Whisper from your deathbox –
through the star-ash threading me
me up with all these rabbits: everywhere
of their demonic possession.
you’d return with a grimoire of matinees for my quick-
we talked about. I’m sitting
waiting for you & your thought dust to come party-
I promise I won’t be afraid this time; I know how
of your shape is, through certain slats, a light
I can remember.
rests in my body – sit hunchbacked
your shoulders to hyperventilate
our wrists in approval;
tourniquet of thawed fingers, ringed
ringed at the neck with half-moons
for a body emerging
of carnage. I coax
my soul-box & airways – to speak
My clairvoyance has offed itself
is coughing up rose gold, whetting
lilies, still milking. You name the form
mother; I do not believe you.
Kailey Tedesco is the author of She Used to be on a Milk Carton (April Gloaming Publishing) and These Ghosts of Mine, Siamese (Dancing Girl Press). She is the editor-in-chief of Rag Queen Periodical and a staff writer for Luna Luna Magazine. Her work has been featured in Phoebe Journal, Sugar House Review, American Chordata, and more. For further information, please visit kaileytedesco.com.