by Zainab Ismail

Bad blood:
mottled like abstract art where my mouth
shut closed like a seashell;
I wear it bottled, sour perfume to my ear
to hear the hellish ocean call,
high notes of choral madness.

Brimstone-heavy in my pockets,
I’ll dig the tip of

the iceberg. This is some kind
of excavation; I’ll confess it all
to an armchair and an analytical stare.
Mine gold
from saltwater, tear and tear.