sarah xerta

Joe Milazzo’s gorgeous fragments in the inaugural issue of Zoo Cake Press. 

I know it, I will pass in recesses, I will be the quotient 

of your pains. I will take my leave of going away, 

of tidying, of reattaching, of mending the button 

eyes and unravelling hands of what we were when I— 

a motor not belching black from oil, only framed and 

furnaced that awfully—stood behind you. You really think we 

have somewhere to be. I know it. You have no view of what pants 

at my neck, how, in the distance, the ankles gape and the shoes 

crumple. The laces flicker like scissors, or serpents threshing 

hay tall and dry. You don’t hear how the horses’ hooves fall 

and you can’t taste how each spray of dust 

fuels me with rainbowed barbs.