By Italo Ferrante

                           it is a pleasure to burn	         one hole after the other
                           like an oyster shell            bored by sponges
                                          like St. Sebastian            on steroids
                                          I am full of holes            the first hole glows in the dark
                                  when I miss my father            when my father doesn’t text me goodnight
                            even if he’s always online            the second hole buzzes 
                              like a sleep-deprived bee            when I woof at a retired man
                                            with no face pic            with no pronouns
                                 my father should know            the third hole is the hole of androgyny
                                       it is my body shape            a top hourglass and a triangle 
                              which should be inverted            which should point downwards
                     I cling to the conditional mood            I enunciate better than Tiresias
                     my syllables are never stressed            the fourth hole is the hole on my belly
 a reminder that I used to ride in God’s balls            a scar my father left me for not being a girl
                           my mum should remember            I was so scared of Father’s hammer drill
        that I would stick my head in the dryer            even when it was off
                      the fifth hole is the actual hole            the fifth hole is the hole that burns 
                   when another man comes inside            to fill me up

Italo Ferrante earned a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Warwick. He is currently undertaking an MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University. To date, his work has been published by Train River, Nymphs & Thugs, Orchard Lea Press, Reinvention, The Initial Journal, and Kamena Magazine