Let me touch your textured backside, You—
escaped god. You—boring earth. You— working
beetle—like the bark of a lemon
tree, or what is beneath it: Your heap
of ruin, Your ball of babies. I am



for You.

I too, fuck beneath clusters
of bright stars. I too, do all of my best
hiding at night, I want to protect
livestock, taste my country
where it counts. I too,
poorly understood.

Let me write about You, and Your cute
tush. Tell me how You planned on wearing
golden shoes, how the eagle’s egg tasted
in the softest spots of Your mouth
Was it like eating shrimp with the shells
still on? Did Your breath smell
of patriotism?

When You were given this life, You—
brown cherub, You—musty bug—
—You looked that god straight
in the eye. There You were, You—
whatever Your name is
Here to do all of our hard work.
Tell us to move out of Your way
You—industrious mite,
You will show us how
to properly bury
our shit.


Micaela Walley recently graduated from the University of South Alabama with a degree in Creative Writing. Her other works can be found in Oracle Fine Arts Review, Eunioa Review, and Straight Forward Poetry. She currently lives in Hanover, Maryland, with her best friend—Chunky, the cat.