thralldom <\/p>\n

brain braid. of purple flower. she to the wickerwork. of fern.
\npine bark. hello you deaths. so brain beat. trusted lavender.
\nto throb. she with sweat. her hours with chins. haircuts.
\ntriangle mouth out. peninsula and her one finger. on the leaf.
\near to the ground. other in the sky. fill with rain water.
\nwith mud. the other. her own body. amplified. can’t she know
\nthe bottle emptied. cap in her hand. her ears still on
\nboth sides of her body. a fault. where to. deadbeat
\nwishing and stiff-eyed. swamplily. you foamflower.
\nthe whole run of flesh. with hair and nails. that flowerpot.
\nstuck between the two fingers in her ears.
\nsome every. thing. made with her hands.
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nenemy<\/p>\n

in a dream you are broken into, house violated and burglarized
\nby the apparition of him. you lay and write a letter into a blank
\nbook. she and her mother wear rouge paper robes.
\ntheir teacher iman mersal. they can never contact. all they have
\nis their good book with the catalog info, author bio, advanced praise.
\nthere are 33 blank pages inside the hard cover. I’ve stolen her book.
\nI write to her in it. the dog was beat to death when I got here.
\nyour mother had a black eye. you call me while I write. I hear
\nin your voice that you know I’m placing ink in your book. but
\nit’s not your book. you are not her. you begin to imply accusation,
\nthe best offense against the liar. the man stands in the doorway.
\nhe killed the dog. he black-eyed your mother. there are more
\nterrible things than this book thrown somewhere
\nin this ransacked house. the man does nothing. I realize the woman
\non the phone was here to read the words I placed in that book.
\nshe killed the dog and punched out the mother. she needed to know.
\nand took what she wanted. the man hands me a phone number.
\non a yellow sheet of paper. he’d found it in the street. my car
\nhad been burglarized. they’d taken nothing again. I keep nothing.
\nbut now I watch for them and wake up in the night and look.
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nSean F. Munro lives, listens, writes, and teaches in New Orleans. Other recent poems appear or are forthcoming in The Offending Adam, ILK journal, and Spork. Nice to meet you. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

thralldom brain braid. of purple flower. she to the wickerwork. of fern. pine bark. hello you deaths. so brain beat. trusted lavender. to throb. she with sweat. her hours with chins. haircuts. triangle mouth out. peninsula and her one finger. on the leaf. ear to the ground. other in the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":13,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_mi_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0},"categories":[157,8],"tags":[25],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bkreview.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/282"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bkreview.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bkreview.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bkreview.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/13"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bkreview.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=282"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.bkreview.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/282\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1956,"href":"https:\/\/www.bkreview.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/282\/revisions\/1956"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bkreview.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=282"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bkreview.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=282"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bkreview.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=282"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}