What the Girls Taught Me

First, our diagnosis: if not self-cratered then 
cut into, made malleable. Weíve been chunked 
since day one, chewed & spit out, rinsed. 
Your hint of form is a suggestion, they said, 
suggestion placid. Your signifier: will please. 

If enlightened, ecdysis. Molt! Wear a birthday
dress to get roughed up on shingles or tear
your fatherís t-shirt for a tail. Fill up on fantasia 
filters or go carbon sick, you festive loon. 
Ride your bodied silk out the celebration; bleed 
and still tricks propose. But better yet your
tongue, your own hot whip. 

Ah, chameleon, the freshly dead need tools, 
harder wares, your white seed, an open-handed 
rattle. All us speak. Use what we do; crash 
the flower false from the start. Get flagrant, 
itís easier, admit it. Better to come 
down now, better to get down. 


Aumaine Gruich is advancing her tenuous relationship with the Midwestern U.S. by pursuing an MFA at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. Her work has been published in Yes, Poetry, Botticelli Magazine, and Ruminate, in which she was a finalist for the 2016 Janet B. McCabe Poetry prize, judged by Alice Fulton. She figures things out at arosethere.tumblr.com.