Porcelain sink and a bottle of Black Opium.
Hairs from my head I slid between each tooth,
taking more time flossing the molars. A good
habit to keep.
Azazel’s other daughters are birds of prey.
I’ve seen them on my way to work.
Beautiful girls like me.
But they appear as gashes in the sky. Infected wounds.
All of them.
Not a lick of sense
shared between them. They could have long
hair and smoke cigars if they wanted,
they could ride in the flat of my truck,
sun streaming onto their open laps.
But they are already consumed by fire.
I never keep the hair. It makes a nest
in my trash, though, they won’t mistake it for home.
Morgan Leigh Plessner
Morgan Plessner is a poet with her MFA from the University of New Hampshire. She has been published in Ink & Voices, Foliate Oak, Underwood Black Works, Red Flag Poetry, Reality Break Press and Allegory Ridge. Her first book, Body of the Moon, is on pre-sale at Allegory Ridge.