Today's poem is by Lydia Golitz

Hell Is Up
       

The moon, fragile cup
        of a jockstrap.

Hell is up my middle finger.
        Show it to the moon

just to try it.
        Hell is up in Wisconsin.

Where dogs on farms get pregnant
        but not married.

They tried.
        Wrapped me with a cheese

cloth garter
        wet with curd.

Kicked me in the haunches
        for chewing it.

Under the short skirt
        of my life

tears roll down
        like a snapped string

of pearls.
        To clean

a fish means
        to kill a fish.

Give me time
        to undress. This suit

is made of what
        I've been told.

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Copyright © 2024 Lydia Golitz All rights reserved
from Black Warrior Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission