Medium, Poetry Self Saboteur October 13, 2022 A poem. A clackety-clack inthe gut might be butterfliesor indigestion. Wings of mothsflutteringabout open flames, courting the endof rerun tv dinner neon nightsand cold dark beds… Those wingsflutter too close to death,too close to vital organs. The heart is a finickypickled brute encased in feathery emotives,protected from the flames and all too closeto butterfly wingsflittering against internal pieces — eyelashes rubbingsupple skin,lips licked, gaze trailed. Mothdust falls ondoorbells sagging underneathflickering porch light — the fluttering ceases,wings plucked,dust settled, untouched. Previously published in The POM Previous How to Write a Logline for Your Novel Newer Are Writing Conferences Worth It? You May Also Like Finding Your Writing Tribe May 8, 2019 Growth Isn’t Always Easy November 9, 2018 Waning Gibbous March 31, 2022 Leave a Reply Cancel replyYour email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *Name * Email * Website Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. Comment Δ This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.