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CALAMITY
FUCK, I'M A LIVE
grenade.
Wait long enough
and I’ll bed many suitors.
Trinitrotoluene
core, my sentences
fragment after four
seconds.
Dear Foxhole, I
am sorry to infiltrate—
Dear Pillbox, I
prefer powder to solid—
For those who live
I craze a radius of skin.
My lips: wire, pre-formed,
kiss your body
like freezer peas, black
with simile in the burned snow.
Matthew Schmidt is working on a PhD in English at the University of Southern Mississippi. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in Hobart, Small Po[r]tions, Territory, Word For/Word, and elsewhere. He is an associate poetry editor at Fairy Tale Review.
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