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brynne rebele-henry




She’s got her golden girls Buick set on repeat again

I’m shooting up daisies to feel that petal-pushing ground-sprung mud wince

Her face a sexed-up mothball gasoline, the sticker you licked to stay on

Popping china we forget our frumpy cardigan British news anchor

Shot in the head careening

Bull tamers, their little skin palliated against spots of wool knit

Liquid weather, temperatures that don’t add up

Sprite dipped chocolate dough raw hard in our throats

Bette Davis was a real goddamn bitch says her mother

Nine months tops, say our crisp white men

Their stubble reminding us of Cadbury cookies

Stethoscope times, mathematical improbability




Janice is a two-headed wolf in the doorway to my Broad Street apt.


A talking sacrifice walked apple sour

The land periphery

I drop three grains of rice for the dogs to eat

My cherry blossom hands sweep up

To the places where the stars once were

We cut his belly open first for the gold

Elemental organ hands

Small nubs of thumb

And then rodents, stone on limbs

And the cityscape seascape getaway coupons

My thumb bends black on the butcher’s block

As he throws meat to the dogs






Brynne Rebele-Henry’s poetry, fiction, and visual art have appeared in The Volta, Revolver, Adroit, Souvenir, Alexandria Quarterly, PANK, and other magazines, and her work is forthcoming in So to Speak, Ping Pong,  The Offending Adam, and Pine Hills Review. She was born in 1999 and won the 2015 Louise Louis/Emily F. Bourne award from the Poetry Society of America.