Westwind

Ad Lib Oil

Austin Beltrand

 

Let’s play (a game) where you complete me

by replacing the escaped puzzle pieces

with fetuses forever lost at the grocers.

Maybe they will find you – “Oil on Aisle 6”.

 

Remember, Dear, your high-octane, flammable tears

that scorch like an elegy to the spark in your eye,

praising the limbs you have thinned into barcode lines.

You light my world, you (pseudonym for slut).

 

Stick to the list, (Name), and sallow the

emptiness: people become what they eat.

The bruises that fracking left we keep figurative.

I only am trying to settle the demand.

 

A (Hancock) will end the transaction like

shredded tire flourishes on the perforated line

tracing down the center thighway, towards this trap.

Ask the striper with an MD for plastic.

 

Baby, you look like a beautiful (lie).

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