Patricia Hartland

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we’d      harvest    your   names
at the organ swap orgy    to play with
your spleen  for maw’s    left ventricle
  mound of venus     for heel
                                                        same diff


my friend my my 

walking bucket

of scar tissue you

my my. blessure blessure
blesses    YOU  

                                      ve littered the mantle with     scare tissue
                                                                                          scar tactics
                                                                                          trickle trickle
                                                                                         ash dust 


to drag a finger through we
make trace 

spell    out

limp slip
slime tip 

in the hand                                            
 in your hand we                                            

grip melt
fish bulge


we flinch at french tonguing
we flinch from bruise crush 

this melts we

our uh uh uhhh                              
  bio loom in essence 

sweetsweet precious please
pleases    word sweep 

                   tins from the yard      jangling bird wings in them 

are you crushed yet

 sweepsweep our merry      limbs into

our dainty         trash heap still      

 five hundred

years old still


maw’s lost boy still maw lost

by the rubbly dragoons filching tiny cakes from the skull bowl



maw in her room with her twitchy lamp back

and fro back and fro maw her teeter so quiet

teeter in the lids teeter in the thumbs

gone rickety from the teeter teeter O
O    O    O
   O     O


O if i lost her
    if she got
                    lost again

her little hairs
her paperskin

crinkled against the edge n blustering coagulant maroons

my fingers glissando   ing in its everywhichwhere


such paper gram-



my fingers taking on her her
her deep red

my fingers prove stilt

O!   O   O
O   O


crumples clean our maw

         DON’T SHE DON’T



the chairback grown in
-to   stammer rash    im pression

in prescient

                                         dream milk


our teats milk-empty
but his O.  O.  O.  his         teat doth overfloweth


over flower   his     the sprite in milkwhite decay    

 treble   cleft ed
hare lippish   frons 

his maw

maw curdling the tongues     he keeps saturate  

 ferment in his                                                                      firm uh  meant
                                                        uh     mint

drink to it!
drink drink!
drink til wet
til face splash
my precious stone


Patricia Hartland reading PRIME OR DIAL [PRY MORE DEE UH]

Patricia Hartland is learning about poems at Notre Dame and enjoys translating works that insinuate themselves into bendable tongue-borders. Recent samplings can be found with Two Lines, Asymptote, Lunch Ticket, Duende, and are soon to come with BrooklynRail, World Literature Today, and Elsewhere.