Isabella Grabski
the ants are stitching
over the ground, thick bodies
driving in pieces—
the head, then the rest,
then all the rest. knee-jerk
i am killing them
foot down and down,
they die with very little blood.
my brother grabs my wrist—
stop it—this is the lip
of the moment. if there are befores
and afters, this is not quite
the middle. desdemona, to othello:
i understand a fury in your words,
but not your words.
standing here, in the hot sun,
i hadn't noticed it before—
the skin of my face is hot—
like knowing a place but
not the name of a place. othello: put out the light.
othello: it is the cause.
my brother at my wrist
and my feet at the ground. i can't progress
from here. the poem doesn't go on.
the wrists are the tips
of the body. weighted forward,
the body passes to another place.