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THREE POEMS

by

Monica Fauble



Consumption

Tired of serving as husband
to suffering and skin,
I cough up resistance,
solitude, absence, even especially

small death.

When I speak of death,
Iım thinking of sparrows,
of circling wings,
of my own tiny body

like an open beak.


Ripe

Stooped over the display of sweet stuff
with wide pits, I plow through the piles of soft fruit,

edging my thumb from the shallow slopes
to the hard stem at the end of each mango.

The skin stretched tight (like a baseball),
but seamless somehow,

my thumb gives when I press in
to the satin finish of the fleshy fruit.

Testing the round weight by tossing
the thick skin in my cupped hand,

I savor that gentle smack,
that rise and fall of firm decision.


Bang

Last night I stared straight
down the barrel.

swallowed your gun,
flicked the trigger with my tongue,

head cocked to hear you
shudder and soak.




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Monica Fauble is a genre-deviant girl living in Asheville, N.C. She writes creative nonfiction and poetry, and she has recently completed a memoir written mostly in prose-poems. Her work also appears online in Sidereality and Suspect Thoughts: A Journal of Subversive Writing. She has received a fellowship from Vermont Studio Center. Her current projects include using fashion to stop the spread of HIV and learning Latin in order to translate Catullus.




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