Poetry
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First, from treason, for even loss belongs
to men; their fealty (just call it love)
to other men but older, thoroughly; pining
for a root obsolete, used much like
rhubarb to free rot from teeth. Betrayal is
lost on me as I’ve no sword to toss
in the pen, and like the sow I must be quiet
while they cut my belly open. But–
how shall I keep these butterflies, blood-fed,
from tinting each page, every ledge;
yes, I possess a life to live regardless, and yet
I am ousted from the very language.
No, perfidy to a body such as this just happens,
coincidence, circumstance. Tell me,
what right has the candle beneath the snuff
of hand? I cannot abide by the laws
made by men-God grow me these tails, rows
of teeth, and a hundred hungry heads.
Kale Hensley is a poet and visual artist from West Virginia. Their work appears in Gulf Coast, BOOTH, and Evergreen Review. They live in Texas with their wife and a menagerie of clingy pets. Find more of their writing at kalehens.com and more of their life @julianofwhorwich on Instagram.