A response to the recent plagiarism controversy re: Ailey O’Toole and Rachel McKibbens

 

It is slow sludge struggling

through a paper windpipe.

I, myself, am choked,

clogged like a                                        dead

sewer city. My talent is so

shriveled, so flightless, I can’t

even vomit without vomiting.

A bird                                                       unspun the

snakes within, feigning veins,

that once fed on my inertia,

occupied space in my throat.

She knew her song like it had

perched on her chest for too

many winters. A stout gremlin

tinkering with her lungs

instead of a plane. And when

she coughed up                                            blud,

I siphoned it from her lips.

 

 

You can also read this poem here.