TRAVIS MERSING

I think it's time to dismantle-

a baler as big as the weight of June.

My body shivers, sits up, and finds

a field of thistles in full scream and bloom.

Each prick is a chance to stay. To leave

a bit of that body behind. And I

haven’t washed in days. Haven’t prayed

or figured how to field dress in a skirt.

Is this what we call having land?

Take a piece, chew it ‘til your mouth is dry.

That body tries to plié—to toe the tips

of vivid purple ‘til they’d call me

                                                      Jesus-of-the-downy-needles—

or simply that thing up there.

Should I let it happen?

The body twists in the wind, pale and rough—it takes

—like sheet metal takes a deadfall tree.

The body changes, together.

It takes in the white ends of clover, sucked

for a quiver of sweet. Touch-me-nots. Twine,

cut and tossed. Husk, undressed.

Their back arches and the neck goes limp;

The thistles grow an inch closer to the wilt;

As if the sky was just the sky;

As if bleeding out were somehow glamorous—