by Holly Mitchell
My blood could kill a dog. Don’t start on that note; the sound is off. I don’t want to hear another person telling me they can’t relate to Joyce. I don’t want to pretend you aren’t Leopold Bloom. No one masturbates to Proust. No hoops were shot in the making of this. At least I don’t live in a white house. At least I don’t shave on Google Earth. Jean Toomer built his body at the American College of Physical Training. His rejection from the Army read hernia and bad eyes. See: tattooed pomegranates. See, they bite until they aren’t playing. The endgame believes it’s endless.
Holly Mitchell is a poet from Kentucky and an MFA candidate at New York University. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in several journals, including Washington Square Review, Ishaan Literary Review, Split Quarterly, The Bakery,Duende, and TRANSOM. (website & Twitter)