It’s a dot on a map. Pseudo-visionary. Danse macabre.
The way the skeletons pile up in the closet.
The head and heart are separate, breathing creatures
existing on these killing plantations
while the beets grow forth out of vengeance.
Their toed wine dawdles on my palate
like some foreign, funny language among Brussels.
This wallflower waits for God’s crowbar to pluck me
off the structure. Disconnected from the moon,
I oblige the escapism.

Amanda Tumminaro lives in Illinois with her family. Her poetry has appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, Squawk Back, Digital Papercut, Oddball Magazine and Three and half point 9, among others. She will soon be going to school to get her degree in art.