from Lizard Venus

My brother is spread across his sheets like a venereal question. I hum and kiss his eyelids. His wrists have caked all the way down to the mat- tress. Every part of him is hard. There is a trail of polluted river behind me because I took off my clothes and walked home wearing only the soaked jacket my killer threw. Everybody is dying in one frequency. It’s good, if I’m not excluded.

I squish next to him, fiddling the heavy wetness of my jacket over us, giving us a freezing canopy. I hold him until our bodies shake. I listen to his wounds. They glitter on my ear. They say: “Flintstone vitamin girl. I have given you a name because my sister also loved you.”

I rub the world dry. My stomach pokes up like a flexing muscle, quivering scientifically, atoms cuddle our bloat. My brother keeps slitting his wrists and I keep hammering my body until our shudder is the same.

Sean Kilpatrick was raised in Detroit. He is published or forthcoming in Fence, Pindeldyboz, Forklift Ohio, Jacket, No Colony, and LIT, two Books at BlazeVOX and Magic Helicopter Press, and maintains: