We drank handfuls of creek water. We smoked cataracts.
to pines burn tawny, surrender into rust,
clap like the tiny applause of fire
exposed to sap. One of me took a handful of himself
and cast it watching the water
unbolt into a veil. But water
spattering upward did not come down. It waited.
And we waited for it to sink. When it didn’t,
we thought maybe one day the entire creek
would suspend itself above the sediment,
but then it would no longer be a creek, just
clay and mud and water isolated and maybe
everything would live just like that:
pure and separate and unholy.
The Tooth in my Throat
is three feet long. Is my spine’s
spine. You had one, too,
but most parents
have it removed. Too large
to be put
in a jar and displayed
like our pickled
gallbladders or tonsils, these are upcycled:
steamed in crescendo
shrunk in cream.
What’s left is a rather remarkable nanobone,
which provides most of the silicon
for a computer processor’s integrated circuit.
Or would, had it not melted,
perched in our cold hands.
Geramee Hensley is from Cleveland, Ohio. He attends Capital University where has taught a portion of a creative writing class and is the Co-Editor-in-Chief for the student literary magazine, ReCap. He is also Managing Editor for the student newspaper, The Chimes. His work has been featured in Souvenir Lit Journal.