ELIZABETH HALL

HOLETARIAT

Virgo, my rising sun moon. I’m perfect
save my skrimpy intestines, sleepy
anus. Left unaddressed
is a problem.

One strong hole,
all I need.

Colon shiny as a glass eye.
125 liters of triple-filtered water,
pumped clean through me.

An observation tube, please.
I want to watch myself leak
the synergistic power of water,
nozzle of traditional knowledge.
Ancestral to us all.

$150 for 60 minutes. Cash
app for wild bark
aids: magnolia,
buckthorn, slippery elm.
A promise: my body,
pure lily status.

A deep ache, deep
inside. A small cost
to rouse my rectum,
make her behave, unlock
my potential. Good girl.
Now slaked. Free
from rangy desire, red
dye 40, any lingering
debris of dreams.

Now I’m easy.
Light. The go-to destination
on the westside.

BIRDWATCHING

Pussy, protein goals,
Tom Petty song,
scroll on.

God please let me
get into birdwatching,
baking bread on Sunday
afternoons, farmer’s
market hauls splayed
on a rough cloth.

A shaft of sun sets
the plums ablaze.
Crushed fennel
seeds in my palm.
Almost enough.

Of course, the finches
in the yard fascinate.
Crayon red plumage,
and fast. 40 miles per hour,
clean above the palm line.

Crease of pink
on the horizon.

Eight seconds,
then I’m off,
looking for another
bright thing
to take flight.

Elizabeth Hall is the author of Season of the Rat (Cash 4 Gold Books) and I Have Devoted My Life to the Clitoris, a Lambda Literary Award Finalist.