tides of a small sea
we are ferocious
upstairs, smelt of salt
shedding dyes, words
wrung from mouths
loose gray petitions
floral in a handkerchief.
what we discover
never learn the language
lungs will bellow desire
layered as cocoon
worn as pewter
two moths wash over
flush in disappointment.
Venus Without Nipples
He hates their passion in its swan song.
She hates the puke of daily death.
His sweet sex of the marriage bed, moribund.
Her vessel scoured, her love sliced.
He feels unfaithful, loving her previous woman.
She entertains carcinogenic locus.
His knead of fresh meat.
Her swollen well on flesh.
He wants back a fingering of curls, the fight.
She wonders who wants to spouse Joan of Arc?
His kismet flown.
Her aura extracted.
He writes eulogies months before the demise.
She hides posthumous notes amongst dishes.
Catherine Moore is the author of three chapbooks (Finishing Line, Kentucky Story) and Wetlands (Dancing Girl Press, 2016). Her poetry appears in Cider Press Review, Wicked Alice, Blue Fifth Review, Caesura, and various anthologies. She won the Southeast Review’s 2014 Poetry Prize and was awarded a Nashville MetroArts grant. Tweetable @CatPoetic.