Poetry: Jacqueline Boucher
Radioactive
In the aftermath,
the first things to grow
are the horns. We fleshy ibex
in threadbare sweaters
clash in subcutaneous bump
and grind, in hemorrhage
& broken bone.
I leave one eye at the foot
of a gutted soda fountain,
tin of ravioli clutched in my fist
like pennies. Before: we got gas there,
swapped spit and Mentos
on the oily curb.
Now, I am fluent in fist over fist,
in drag of belly and taste
of concrete & rain. You sleep,
bathed green by ruined lake.
I stitch my lid with dental floss,
draw another iris
in web of splintered lens.
I push this treasure
into sleeping palm, whisper
I won this for you,
but I’m not sure if I mean pasta
or shards of skull in matted hair.
Jacqueline Boucher (she/her) is a queer poet who lives and writes in Kansas. Her work has appeared in Occulum, The Rising Phoenix Review, Cartridge Lit, BOOTH, Hobart, Smokelong Quarterly, and other magazines. She is a founding editor of Lammergeier Magazine. Her life’s ambition is to write a book-length love letter to Hannibal Lecter and to convince her cats to pay rent.
Image: express.co.uk
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