Untitled II

specifically the raw meat stage

of the first few days together

train that runs over a dog

train that is the only way to orgasm, killing an animal

you love, one you know

or even a stranger, killing a stranger dog

like every time you orgasm, the animal is skinned

if the objection is to the binary choice

we are missing the point of the dilemma

let’s eat cupcakes at each other

with no pants on

lick frosting deep in each other’s eyes

buy gold chains off the internet without breaking gaze

I’ll get what I want

Untitled V

a house, cursed, is a distraction

open weeping can appear to be

in all things

all things

I know enough theory

to recognize falsehood:

even a virus gone systemic

should be denied agency

every day the loop of isolation grows tighter


I haven’t bothered to crack that one yet

with a bit of leather between my teeth

hold me under

Untitled X

when I say no one is talking about the grief

of fucking someone

I mean it’s everywhere all the time

this murderous anonymity

the relief of uncoupling too obvious

an embarrassment of riches

for the moment between when the fist lands

and the bloom of knowledge that follows

I wanted to grieve the way I wanted to fuck him

the truth is, the truth is too simple for what happened

I needed to lie and to grieve the lie as well

to suckle the child—to feel my body multiply

as if I could feed a waiting crowd

Amie Zimmerman lives in Portland, Oregon. Her work has been published in Sixth Finch, DIAGRAM, West Branch, Salt Hill, and BathHouse Journal, among others. She has two chapbooks, Oyster (REALITY BEACH) and Compliance (Essay Press), and is an editor for YesYes Books. 

Photograph is from a performance by Leif Holmstrand.