The Others By David Tierney
excise the memory of every shit / pectacular thing I did to you & us , try to scrape away the excess fat but unable to distinguish its fetid white from the succulent pink reminisces which mingle iridescent my fingers shaking as I drop them into the bin , cauterize the bright wounds from which I sprout us again in regurgitated spindly mutations that spread , breed , expand into versions of you & I from alternate times and spaces — our other lives which may / may not ever exist which I am allowed / am never allowed / must allow inside . I hold them ; I lay them down with tea and biscuits until they quieten , but inevitably shift awake in my arms , wailing , and I stare and I try to distinguish whether they cry beautiful or ugly , whisper , ‘ Shh , shh , shh ,’ as I pull them close and tremble between embrace & snapping their neck , both breathing us into new life