Whore Garden

The bulk of my harvest once settled, sunk into sleep,
will be of failures—the cauldron womb-pitched

across the floor, some little angle-change of pace
dictated by the fragmentarian trapped in the magic.

I must dig back to the past, through walls, faces
and frowns of contempt, like the letters of old

to Self and All carved into rocks and limbs beyond
windows within earthen walls, my ancient selves

asundered. With memories to authenticate, subtle
salvations arise—“nor throw away a nail

or screw once used to build a room or found
therein,” I flash within the dark. A low-flame

production it is, this parade of raggedness,
this walking mouth-dream, this breast’s supply

the fence is built upon, the herd circled about,
coming late into our muscle-hood of the temple plant.

I had great access but lived in the blade, glad of my
drunkenness born in the shade. The gentle want of time-

sunk memories helps me to travel these horse bites,
to choose the Problematic—for the sun is watering all

the pigs beyond the desecrate dam, practicing for us.

A Few Things Written on My Hands

Grief has a way of cleansing the bowels,
the guttural enema so swift it scours

the halls of all machines that rise up
from the ground, frenzied entitlement

exposed. I would love to have floated
above my father, alone on his bed as,

alone, I lie upon mine, wanting to swim
in the vaginous oceans of unconsequenced

wombs—not wither in the carcass but pump
and thrust the distant heart. I have a bowl

of food in front of me. I have a bowl of grief
chopping the opera into pieces. I cannot mend

the wound within our groin. Was it worth it, then,
the suffering? Only if we could suffer it again.

Fragile the Coffin​

I love the insertion of Hand into Time,​
stretching the hot womb to settle, sink​

the muscular ships of sleep and decay,​
the both of which, lest drunk with bliss,​

resist the swirl, the whip, the requisite​
ink of the casket display. Empty-faced​

in the light, the bulk of their cargo demand​
infirmities asleep on the same salt pillows,​

excrement sheets embracing the act​
of bleeding worse than history—for it’s​

ever a crawling back of the fingers then​
sliding of hands up and over the thighs​

of mystery to watch the delicate drum-​
touchings conduct the grim cleansing​

of your house in the now unborn.​

Matt Dennison’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Verse Daily, Rattle,
The Inflectionist Review, DIAGRAM, The New York Quarterly Magazine, Modern
Haiku, The National Poetry Review, Bayou Magazine, Redivider and Cider Press
Review, among others. His fiction has appeared in ShortStory Substack, THEMA,
GUD, The Blue Crow (Aus), Prole (UK), The Wondrous Real and Story Unlikely. He has also made poetry videos with Marc Neys, Jutta Pryor, and Marie Craven.