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skull
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Kristin Roahrig

The June Selected Poet is

Kristin Roahrig

Please feel free to email Kristin at: kristin.rm@hotmail.com

Kristin Roahrig

ANOTHER BIRTH

Scratching through the soft dirt
Crumbles fall under my nails
As I crawl my way up into the light
Where bones are scattered on mounds
The eyes of the skulls being the only ones who witness my descent into the light
A single cloud cradles the moon as shooting stars race overhead
Announcing to any who know of the birth that took place tonight
A butterfly-yellow wings tipped in red flutters near my excrement left of birth
My new eyes gaze at the moth as it flutters upward
Burnt in the moon’s light

RESURRECTION

It was the night of the dead
And we are dancing through,
They hold him high
Death
With chants and praises
The twisted stock raise
Showing Death’s body, reflecting green fire
Consumed by the light
Death rises higher into the night
Arms stretch for it
Never filled
Someone sucks on Death’s mouth
Wanting in
Someone pounds from inside
Wanting out
I want neither and all
A new head is raised and falls
Among the crowd
An infant’s head whose intestines
My foot now feels
The head cracks open in two,
Hands begin grasping like a glutton’s
Pieces of the brain
Flung into the air
Fall like rain
Over all
My hand reaches out to catch the fall
Collecting it all
Treasure is mine—is ours
Sudden stillness then
Death’s disciple, his followers gone
All is quiet with the ground littered
I’m left alone
Never feeling more forlorn
Looking down at
My precious treasures
Disappointed and surprised
I find no intestines
No bits and pieces under my nails
But instead a newly formed infant

HUNGER BEFORE THE PARTY

Come into the party dear
Right this way through the curtain here
I do hope there is enough light,
These candles of mine are troublesome things
Yet so much better then electricity—don’t you think?
Careful of the wick; it sinks terribly
Drips ever so dreadfully
Some of it has solidified quite nicely
A hundred years old at least—
I’m joking darling, it’s not so old
You like my black dress?
Why thank you, it is my best
But do stop dawdling and come inside for I’m, er, hungry

Kristin Roahrig’s poetry and short stories have appeared in various publications. She is also the author of several plays and lives in Indiana.