INHERITANCE
by Jessica Morey-Collins

a hall three fourths full of echo (generally, many wrung bells)
a denture amid other fruits of maya; several identities
the word ‘tender,’ bled out, kept
quiet—other such by products
a flyover while you are in the bathroom (laughing alone)
howl of heaven when I
nothing ventured; some whens, whenevers
a tiny line of light through minor chords
a vagina flown through with ghosts—
time lapsed, lapsing
the transmigration of the soul’s sloppy suitcase
a door hinged on obsidian; that one time I whispered
my name—
several two-day travels, 108 beads long (times plenty)
staunch consequences, among other rots
the sea heaves gruff some years—gives a good haul,
a hall three fourths full of echo

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