Gabrielle Grace Hogan is a poet from St. Louis, Missouri (USA).
Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Spiral Orb,
LEVELER, The Penn Review, and others. In 2017, she won the
Academy of American Poets' University & College Prize for her
poem 'pools'. Currently she is pursuing her B.S. at Bradley
University, with plans to pursue an MFA after graduation. She
can be found at

ode to the dog we put down

syringe takes the lord's name in vein. the homecare vet
pours sleep like brackish water into her side until the bed yellows
with piss. her spine sedates, each knuckle bowed.
the milky film of her eyes congeals, stay open
as her rotten tongue lolls out. shitstains
like archipelagos scatter fur. muscles tightly wound,
now un-. dad schleps her into the backseat, under sky
like deflated tangerine's rind, with all its loose skin.
we take her to be cremated. we get mcdonald's after.

rinds (on my uncle in the home of the boy he molested)

his mother asks you to help install their new fridge
& you do. she says you are such a nice friend of her son's.
soft grease full under your nails, you are the dirtiest thing
in this kitchen—a cloud-white basin in the corner
coaxes scents to you, citrus & lemon & pomegranate
but the inside of your palms smell like carcass,
knuckles honeyed from underage spine in high school
bathroom—peeling him, ripened body
crunching under your nails, dripping—
he is a boy, body bruised fruit
& you are a man's suffocating hands
& this is his mother, cutting you
apple slices in thanks. she's talking
& you're watching the knife.

querelle, 1982—andy warhol

what are we without this raw fuck—
blue raspberry spit drippings from
pubescents is a summertime tradition,
but what firm & ripened orgasm

winter does bring in its terrible throat,
in white sun-lacquered living room,
the deux ex machina of sex stains
on our worn upholstery. tell me, lover,

are we so bored of each other now
that we will keep thumbing the peach
for its pit & keep thumbing & keep thumbing
until the meat is torn up in our hands?

sonnet for tonya harding & american negligence

O, trailer trashed child of the grey northwest,
you chewed your way out of oregon's womb
& then out of your mother's empty breast,
only to have america consume
your yearn to be loved—O, dog dragged out back
to be shot, you sought love the only way
you thought that you could, through the booming crack
to the swan-legged rival of your someday
rightful crown. O, triple axel exile,
no one is rich enough to buy back their
past, especially those whom we revile
& least of all the high-class defiler.
O, antithesis of fragility,
of our failure you're the epitome.

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