Call me emptiness, or callous-bodied, or drive the ice pick deeper into the sky. The eagle has learned refusal, won't land in the space provided. The plates are left spinning after the dinner party ends. Oscillation between solid & gas: count to three & by the end even more will be shattered. If I were a bomb. If I were too ill-skinned to touch finger to throne, would you still drink mimosas with me in the back of a truck while lightning, while smog filled in all the openness above us, left only the chilled remnants of a thing we don't know how to name.
Justin Carter is a PhD student at UNT. His work appears in The Collagist, cream city review, Ninth Letter, Passages North, & Sonora Review, where he was the winner of their 2014 poetry prize.