The word on his mouth – verdigris –
a deep saturation, a wetness on his lips, 
a poison on his tongue, a profile bronzed
by the sunlight, and how many suns, 
how many moons,  how many years
will it take for him to  say the word
again, to rise like a coin from the river;
how long for him  to turn and turn
and turn until he is finally face up, 
facing me?  The taste in my mouth, 
copper, not blood (that is nickel.)
I wash my mouth out with soap. 
I scrub my linens in the brass basin.
The oxides are everywhere; with a
word like that on a man's mouth as he
exhales in swarms around me, well, there's
only so many minutes inside a mint green
blade, only so many years upon years
– I can see it: a woman showing off a
ring of resin and rugged silver he bought
for her as I curdle in the loam underneath
seafoam gravestone – that I feel this body
my soul can survive.  

—Katherine MacCue

Katherine MacCue is a poet who lives in NYC. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and her first book No Timid Electra came out in November 2014.  She has been published in various journals such as Wordriot, decomP, and Vinyl. She is currently an MFA candidate at Hunter College.