GUT
by stephanie roberts
i have the same concerns as all criminals,
alibis, quick getaways, where to dump a body,
and how to beat a lie-detector.
even now, my heart is a steel pen
conquering and creating assault
etching out how awful it got
telling black and blues
better than this paradox
muttered into eight corners.
but
when
that
hello
moonwalks to the door of my brain
my stomach (convulsing
like a dying swan) that never learned
to sit like a lady, in basement closets,
like secrets rust in shoe boxes
warp in hot cold attics,
as apple seeds eaten as the poetry of lies,
betrays me.
stephanie roberts was born in Central America, grew up in Brooklyn, NY, and now abides in a wee town in Québec, Canada. A 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee and Silver Needle Press Poetry Contest winner, her work has been featured in numerous periodicals and anthologies including Arcturus, Atlanta Review, Verse Daily, The Stockholm Review of Literature, L’Éphémère Review, Occulum, and FLAPPERHOUSE. Twitter shenanigans @ringtales