keep your ears among the eaves
sometimes I whisper what

dizziness, what destiny

when I’m feeling done
with this solitude  my insides

wallpapered halls, flooded
with blood cells
and dust-mote

I am weight-
bearing, not up to code

here is the library:

finger the worm-
eaten plans, my wings
admired, but never

catalog each tarnished lip, each
bone strain rococo-

what light I let in shudders
mice and moths, falling
in frailty and fur

each arris rusty joint
in socket  here’s the sore

tooth  here’s the broken
turret  follow me to the root cellar, toes
against raw-packed earth

crates of ghost-green
potatoes, wheel spokes, a dried up

gasoline can    my own lungs,
own hips

tell the fat termites
to eat woodchips, while I

release concrete from its hold,
adjust to the crumble of a slated
roof    of shingled mistakes

these spirals out of my spine
the egress and regrets full-stop—


Rebecca Connors was raised in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. and received her BA in English from Boston University. After living in multiple cities, she is back in Boston where she writes poetry and works as a digital strategist. Her work has recently appeared in Eunoia Review, burntdistrict, and Bird’s Thumb. Find her on Twitter at @aprilist.