by Alec Hershman
I suspect I’m just blood surging in an ear.
I suspect a trickle of ants on a stethoscope
and uninteresting, breasted flesh. All around me
in winter, nipples cringe for the plight of the teeth.
Power-lines are drawn against the breath-colored sky,
and vibrating. From a tongue in his jaw; from a glove
in his pocket; from the blind bulb of a tulip that turns
once, like a fetus, in the ground’s dead cake, the song
of the Earth is Feed Me, then Listen, then At Least
Don’t Go If You Have Nothing to Give.
Alec Hershman lives in Bangkok. He has received awards from the Kimmel-Harding-Nelson Center for the Arts, The Jentel Foundation, and the Institute for Sustainable Living, Art, and Natural Design. More of his work can be found in recent issues of Western Humanities Review, Cimarron Review, Mantis, The Adroit Journal, Cleaver Magazine, and through links on his website: alechershmanpoetry.com.