A CODA WILL BRING US TO A CONVINCING CONCLUSION PRINT

For first violin:

Inside the two speech
bubbles of your collar,
I wrote.

For second violin:

I noticed the smoke outside
your mouth was long enough
to put into a ponytail.

For first:

Light shed uncontrollably
on the couch.

For second:

I drank heavily
out of your thumbprints.

For first:

Inspired by practice
heard through a closed door,

I put in my plastic fangs.

For second:

Something in the bat’s face said,
“Every radar tastes metal
in distant objects.”

For first:

Its face said something like,
“Trampled Blacktop,”
when caves showed
up under your arms.

For second:

You pitched in a growl
and a shout.

Echoes come out
ground up.

I brushed grains
off my mouth.

For first:

Wait for noise
enough to braid.

Wait for a man
at the absolute end of the line
to moisten what he has
aimed at you.

Carrie Lorig is living in Madison, Wisconsin for the second time. She came back for her slightly used record player and to ask schools nicely to be a part of their MFA programs. She still thinks fondly of Korea, though, and of the airport in Athens where you can look at old Greek bones and urn shards while you wait. She has been published or is forthcoming in elimae, decomP, and Word Riot.