I

A swan is eating another swan.
It is not beautiful.
It is hideous, and bloody, and terrifying.

It is also beautiful.

II

Your mother goes to the doctor and they find
a shadow on her lung. 
When they open her up, inside
her lung is a blossomed calendula.

When the doctors ask
how it got there she says
she inhaled it whole, on purpose
wanted it inside her ribcage.

When they ask why
she says I didn’t want
the shadow to be
a tumor.

III

Alone at 2 am
in the kitchen you hold
a knife to your wrist.
Later, you don’t.
There is no blood, no scars.

You smoke a cigarette
on your back porch
and look up at the moon.

IV

Inside of God’s mouth
there are many rows of teeth
like a shark.

This thought brings you no comfort.

Because of this,
you know it is true.

V

VI

Blue whales can live to be
one thousand years old, if
we all want it enough.

VII

Every morning, as soon
as you awaken your arms
are outstretched, palms facing 
heavenward

pooling with blood.

VIII

Here is a gun.
Here are seven violets.
Here is a collection of black and white
photographs of telephone poles.
Here are all of my baby teeth.

You’re welcome.
I forgive you.

---

DT McCrea (they/she) is a trans-anarchist poet, a reader for Flypaper Lit, and Pushcart Prize nominee. They love the NBA and know the lyrics to every Saintseneca song. Her work can be found in Indianapolis Review, Gordon Square Review, Honey & Lime, mutiny!, Stone of Madness Press and others. Follow them on twitter @dt_mccrea