I don’t sleep anymore.


And when I’m on the train

I look up the tall woman’s

skirt and find an outlet

I don’t have the correct

connection to plug into.

Man stares at something

long enough to kill it;

he hunts for things not his

own, and, underserving,

greedy for their teeth—

their particular song, a luster—

spoils just about everything

along his way.  And the car

goes dark, jingles a little bit

before it goes silent, before

the recorded announcer

announces to be careful,

that it might begin to rain.


by Britt Melewski



Girl #275


I will run my car

For eleven years straight

Into a concrete abutment

To keep you inside me

For another minute I will

I will do anything

You ask me so please

Ask me what colors make up

My love ask me

Which is my favorite flavor

Of whip my obsession

Is ketchup please

Not you you are different

when you call me

Baby I melt into a paste

That you can spread

I am somebody not only

Some body but the one

You swallowed skinned

Strawberry the one

Who held your fist

And cracked your knuckles

While I kissed you

I did I kissed

You your shoulder

With its wealth of muscle

And salt I replay it

Now I replay it to

Your song replay

Repose our mouths

Our bodies coming

Together bones flesh

Secrets creaking in song


by Britt Melewski



Inmate #386426


When they first brought you to jail,

you were bound to the black chair on wheels

with its sheen straps—the squeak it makes

while it glides across the bleached linoleum

at intake.

  When they tied the mask clasps

around your neck, they bore witness

to your chalky breath—the knot wound

tightly across your pulse. 

But in your torn Nirvana

T-shirt, and beekeeper eyes, you shrugged

and allowed them each their job.


by Britt Melewski

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