follow the dancer

call on the primas 

            sizzling on ice

            like cherry vanilla soda pop


whore           sex worker

a name all in a frame

they might be ballerinas and still fuck

they might both pirouette and throw glass bottles 

            at little girls from balconies


art                 discomfort

the poet said there are no hugs

no difference between the two

especially not and to wishes 

              by sculptors like Bernadette Mayer


kooks         experts

just call off the disdain for all, I beg you

the ones who told us that we’d all soon be 

as sick as ancient ocean birds 

             suffocating in an oil spill


call it off and the picture will cease to be 

            cock-eyed, cattywampus

            a cult following of the necromancer



C.T. McClintock spends her time these days wandering the cemetery by her home in Brooklyn. She finds that the spirits in the oak trees have much to give in the way of poetic wisdom. In addition to poetry, she writes fiction and creative nonfiction and studies the ways creative language and trauma interact. She is also teaches undergraduate writing at St. John’s University in Queens. You can find her most recent poetry in Remington Review and Amethyst Review.


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