Quicksilver Bones

By: Amy Kotthaus

Always nights like this,

when the air is humid

enough to drink, that I live

beneath the wool.

The finer bones

of my hands

pierce through

my fingertips and dig

into something, anything,

as long as it’s soft

and lovely. Just need

to rip and rip and rip.

I can’t stop wanting

to take something sacred

because, God, that’s power,

isn’t it?

Crouching over you-

why am I crying?

My birth, it started out fine,

but I’d rather not

remember emerging.


Amy Kotthaus is a writer and photographer, currently living in Maine with her husband and children. Her written work has been published in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Occulum, Ink in Thirds, and others. Her photography has been published in West Texas Literary Review, Crab Fat Magazine, Typehouse, and others. Twitter: @amy_kotthau