By Brianna Albers
There is never love until there is distance,
which is a way of skimming violence,
which is a way of baring throats. He did not mean
to engulf you. A ritual, of sorts. Murderous accidentals.
In a room of empty hands, there is only hunger. A gaping
maw. A fevered glistening. You saw it in a movie, once:
fingers, crooked, a staccato of want. Never the briefness
of an open wound. In another life, there is a boy: vultured,
grief-slick. In another life, there is a hand, fingers wet
with godblood. You turn a bottle on its head & out spools
relativity. A way to cheat time. Wretched, cleansing magic.
Hungry boy, saying this: He meant to do better. In another life,
there is closeness. An unformed pearl. A palming light.
He did not mean to engulf you. It is always this way.
Brianna Albers is a poet, writer, and storyteller. In 2016, she founded Monstering, a magazine for disabled women and nonbinary people; she currently serves as the Editor-in-Chief. Her work can be found in Guernica Magazine and Word Riot, among others. She can be found at briannahopealbers.com.