Dear Mom, it’s been so long. Since back when
I was a loggerhead shrike, back when I followed
my breath—I the Desire—I’m dry outside
to the nostril, or from it, every
which way. Lip to lip, I went mechanical, Mom,
hoisted my terrific sclerosis into a desert
outside me. I tell my mouth, Mouth, say it dry.
I ran a little darkness into the light, Mom.
I was so sad or afraid that you’d lost me.
I cranked up my canyon repulsion.
Me! Mono! I’ve donated chrome to the stop-
motion men, fade to the eastern wind.
I am the last whole sky I know.
How to drink everything before us, Mom?
Fallopian! Dystopian! The thing to eat,
it comes after the eaten thing. Love, Agatha
To read more poetry by Alexis Orgera, purchase Gulf Coast 27.2 here.