BLOODSUCKERS by Zach Fishel • Cleaver Magazine
BLOODSUCKERS by Zach Fishel Having sliced mosquitoes From the air all week, he sits with mail Neglected like the quiet granite Of New Hampshire. The enormity of moths is felt here. Thinking of the letters. That even in this loneliness there is body to be held. Remembering the time spent with another, like practicing how to use the right hand to undress secrets, nervous until the curves become the angry smiles of highway waitresses. We tear through each other so quickly the language of stillness has lost itself. A solitary motion of the wrist, a quick release, splatter on the neck from the biting. Image credit: Anja Jonsson on Flickr Zach Fishel was born in Central Pennsylvania, but resides in the Berkshire Mountains working as an outdoor educator. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals and has earned two Pushcart nominations. He is the author of two chapbooks, available … chop! chop! read more!
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