Ermine, Honey,
tufts of ermine.
Every one over the falls,
onto the banks. I can afford
Ace bandages. I demand
these weasels mummify me.
Your shawl and gloves
clinging to my thigh.
Don’t tell the guys
I’m trying on your coat.
Let my legacy be a queen
sheet set of chest hair,
these hands.
About the author:
Francesco Grisanzio is currently working on his MFA in poetry at The New School. He earned his BA in English from UMass Amherst. His work has appeared in Fawlt, Why I Am Not a Painter, Strange Machine, and Interrobang!? Magazine.
