two poems

by Katherine Breeden

Chimera

after Kanya Kanchana

darkdawn  mistlie

rootlie  mossclimb

bluestars  lungsweat

lionstare  stonelair

open

wingsrise  headsplit

hairise  hornrise

teethlick  clawcut

snakerip  goatgrip

tailsnap   ma-rise

childrise   eyelick

skinstew  stemstoke

spellstir   tongueflick

thighflick  breastflick

wait

lipsbuzz  jawscrack

bite

taletake  cellslurp

bite

mother, you swallow

daughter, you taste

wounds ancestral

souvenir

Lobsters

This month my body fools the IUD. 

            It’s probably the last one,

            My doctor said,

            then harpooned me  

            like a hunter of octopus.

I find a small lobster

at the bottom of the bowl

hiding timidly among folds of wet 

toilet paper. Claws clink and clank

call to me to pull it out.

I do.

Place it on my tongue,

It buries itself in my molar,

I forget it's there.

I take a bath

and among cracked soap cavities,

the lobster swerves in the waves 

my body’s movements leave behind.

I watch the tail break apart                       

in a lavender sea, scaled

linings multiply, dot the surface

like lobster algae.

I hear them pop, sizzle, moan,

immiscible fibroids float among

spilled essential oils.

Tempted to dive in, 

open my legs, so they

crawl back in

It’s no use—

molting days are over,

I drain the bath water.

Photo of Katherine Breeden

BIO: Katherine Breeden is a teacher by day and a poet by night. Originally from Minnesota, she has lived and worked in several countries, finally settling in Germany. Katherine's work can be found in Abobo Zine Vol. 2, Réapparition Journal, and The Selkie Rebirth Anthology.