by Tiffany Promise

 

In the front yard, horse placenta dissolves
in a mud puddle. The trough is riddled

with algae and flies. You swim regardless,
forget to bathe after. When the itches follow you

(home)

coat yourself in pink paste. Tell mama
that daddy forgot bug spray. When you pee

the couch, tell daddy that mama
forgot to pack Pull-Ups. Your fingernails

are the color of thunder, but only because
they failed to snag any toothpicks. Some plots

are too puny for so much kin (‘specially when
Jesus needs all that space in-between). A twice-

removed someone got cancer of the nose—
scalpel morphed to beak. A second cousin’s

second cousin pressed charges but dropped
‘em when they got too heavy. I’m not here

to tell you what hearts can (or cannot) do:
how many troughs of blood pump through

per year, whether the vermilion ever fades
from the clothesline. I might be a lot of things

but reliable isn’t one of them.

 

Tiffany Promise (she/her) is a writer, mother, chronic migraineur and lead vocalist for the poetry-punk band, SNATCHWITCH. She has an MFA from CalArts and is the winner of the 2023 Honeybee Prize for Literature—judged by Roxane Gay. Tiffany’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Salamander, Redivider, CALYX, Pithead Chapel, 45th Parallel, Narrative Magazine, Brevity, and elsewhere. A lifelong punk and horror fiend, Tiffany’s work skews gritty. Find her at tiffanypromise.com.