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Poetry

“I’ve Come to Pee in Your Lake” and “Fly”

 

I’ve Come to Pee in Your Lake

 

I’ve come to pee in your lake and lay
claim to that which wasn’t given to me,
like the men of history who sprayed their
golden liquid and built up their dynasties.
I’ve come to jump off your deck, plummet
into the straight-talking water with my rolled
body ready to conquer. I’ve come to make a deal.
I’ve come to make ripples. I’ve come to open my
eyes and feast on your horizon of sky, a luxury so
large, you can’t pull the heavy curtain over. I’ve come
and now, I can’t wait for this whole place to smell of me.

 

Fly

 

That’ll be the last fly  I ever kill, that’ll be 
the last blood I ever call forward, that’ll be 
the last time I play     God, that’ll be the last 
mourning I’ll be accomplice to, the last whim 
of rage I’ll lean into,   that’s the last swat I got, 
I proclaim on the street, that’s the last buzzing 
I’ll meet with brute   force, this is the last body 
I’ll be indebted to:    blue, green streaked face, 
furry and so small I couldn’t see your        eyes 
when I swung,        if I just saw your eyes— 
 
Even you, shit eater,  are so goddamn beautiful, 
why is everything so            goddamn beautiful? 
                         It ruins / lives.

Angelica Whitehorne is a writer from Buffalo, New York who has published or forthcoming work in "Westwind Poetry," "Mantis," "The Laurel Review," "The Cardiff Review," and "North Dakota Quarterly," among others.

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