Laura Brun

today i am shock-white snakeskin (leather but, under the surface, abuzz)

dropped into the tv static
of being prey, i say i'll

stay right here.
afloat means knowing

how far down you could
go, means something

besides buoyancy
forcing you up. i don't

mean death, even—it's
not that he would unrope,

coil-clench his body
around my throat. if

he stays long enough
you can dip in and

back out of the vibrating
unthink: a hand into, out

of, wax. i don't mean
death anymore, i'm sure.

more how he hung, heavy
off the shoulders that

brought him here, a
septum-pierced girl

crooking a finger to
slide along his side,

the reaction in his
skin. i mean how he

hung, heavy in the
room long after he left.

Laura Brun is a poet from small-town Kentucky who lives and writes in Pittsburgh. Her work is found or forthcoming in Booth, the Pittsburgh Poetry Review, The Pinch, Selfish, and others. You can find more about her at