Write In Order
by Alice Costas
Lip purses are prone to hold the shapes of letters, rings and rings. Order is a mess to clean from the body, anyways, little shells of egg left yoked to the hip. You are through and through, waiting for the sloughing of skin into the oven, until you aren't the you that's there of cells and buttoned genes pouring reprocessed little parts back into the outside of yourself. Their little walls resonant songs as portions separate from your body, greedy tank of a person.
Even your drinks, even your drinks, are holey little slips into your stomach,
in which you hold your acids.