a year after the rape, you attempt intimacy
between your limbs and hers, a current sweat, powder, the gentle signs
of erosion. you wanted this. how do you hide? your loyal fat
retreats when touched: an ant follows the scent of its leader through unstirred
dirt. memory transports itself the small legs of your grief
warm her mouth for days. she leaves & the blood stays in your body.
Jo Blair Cipriano (they/she) is a queer writer originally from Hyattsville, Maryland. An alum of Tin House and the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, Jo was a 2021 finalist for both Frontier Magazine’s New Voices Contest and its Industry Prize. A 2019 Brooklyn Poets fellow and former college dropout, they are now an MFA candidate at the University of Arizona. Jo lives in Tucson with her partner and the street cat they accidentally adopted.
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