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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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