D. R. Shipp
The day is all ham. Your sister, the cardboard
heiress, macramé hair holding her head
like a pot. Your colorless uncle in his climate
resistant pants. All day long, they want to kill
the flowers. Your body blooming, you carry shame
in checkered mitts. It is two o’clock. Ham
and two o’clock and they won’t stop
ladling verse you can’t fit in your mouth. Hate in a halo.
Tell me. You are the blue egg of spring. A robin
perched on god’s angry knucklebone. Tell me
because you are the holy chalice, sacred
as your hand against my shoulders, grieving the child
that wasn’t. Tell me about the tomb within
the body. About words amongst the dead.
D. R. SHIPP, originally from Texas, is an observer finding his way. A poetry finalist in the Atlanta Review, Juxtaprose, Sycamore Review, Tinderbox Journal, his work can be found in Chaleur, New South, Cleaver Magazine, Sugar House Review and others. In 2019, he won approximately zero contests and did not complete a chapbook. He splits his time between now and then, traveling. He has a curious online following, instagram @shippwreckage.