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.