the body now

hands release
oil,
over head,
over loose ground,
gravel,

like the body was
an engine
with holes,
leaks,
and damaged mechanical
parts.

the body now
takes the hands,
milks
their pressure
like a cry,
like a dehydration
for a soothing.

the body says,
just
let it go.

the hands crease
from their steady
levitation,
fold,
now dry,
a begging
for summer again.

the hands now creep
in closer
to warmer side,
hip, thigh,
natural,
real,
alive.

they die.




April Michelle Bratten is a writer from North Dakota. Her work has appeared in Full of Crow, Hobo Camp Review, and Prick of the Spindle to name a few. She is co-editor of the literary zine Up The Staircase.