Welcome to Labrys, your student-run art and literature collective of Smith College.

The four types of stomachaches:
citric acid, muscle cramps,
rabies shots, pregnancy.
The body has just one
jointless bone. Lives in the throat.
Still, the hinge of swallowing
worries me––an Adam's apple
under the membrane of a neck,
bursting like an appendix,
the pain of devoured molars.
I know, now, the taste of sharp.
Like heartburn. Like infection.

They say you give a lapdance
by writing your name on his thighs
in cursive. My best friend says:
keep razors in your purse.
Ask to use his bathroom,
then shave your legs.
I am beginning to crave the feeling
of being alone in hotel rooms:
unfolding the ironing boards,
wondering how much
will stick to these bedsheets, this
sex and spit and appleseeds.

It is a common myth
that the cellar spider’s fangs
are too short to bite a man,
but can be siphoned for death.
A killer caught teething.
When we were small,
you and I bought sliced salami,
chewed the salt from the wax paper,
ravenous. We broke a glow stick
we had wreathed in my hair,
and the torn halo dripped slow
into my open mouth.