{"id":74113,"date":"2026-03-16T17:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-03-16T22:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sixtyinchesfromcenter.org\/?p=74113"},"modified":"2026-03-15T15:06:16","modified_gmt":"2026-03-15T20:06:16","slug":"skinning-the-rabbit-four-poems-by-temperance-aghamohammadi","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/sixtyinchesfromcenter.org\/skinning-the-rabbit-four-poems-by-temperance-aghamohammadi\/","title":{"rendered":"Skinning the Rabbit: Four Poems by Temperance Aghamohammadi"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n
\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
Two Graves<\/strong><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
Worm  bifurcated  into  a  twin   self.  Janus 
facing    two    guillotines.    Orphan    of    a 
Mother    who,    by    the   end,   could   not 
speak.    Firmer,    the    firmament.  Shriller,
the music  of the spheres. Fed wolves offal.
Adorned  my  skin  with  sinew,  prostrated
my  neck.  There  was  the softest arpeggio
of    Teeth,    the    scratch    of    a    tongue.
Empires    rose.   Empires   were   quelled.  I
was    relieved   into   a   series   of   eroding
Psyches       cast       into       the       Tower\u2019s 
entablature\u2019s    frieze.   Summer   swelled to 
fine   frost.   I   attended  each  Dawn  in the 
white   days   of  the  long  dur\u00e9e,  watching
out     the     window,    weeping    shadows, 
deserter    but   at   arms,   as   the   imperial 
Guard     marched    to    and    fro    on    the 
ice-locked    streets.    I    wasn\u2019t   anyone.   I 
wasn\u2019t  anything   anyone  was  looking  for. 
Rumor     of     rumors.     Fog     of     fogs.   I 
cultivated    an    oasis    of   fevers.   Sowing 
Salvia.     Growing    Glory.    Rations    of    a 
psychic   weather.   To   narrow   the   hip,   I 
went  fast into  myself, protruding the bone. 
I       was       weighed.       I      was      found 
wanting.    O,    I    could   just   imagine   my 
Record   Keepers   later   on:   doll   lost   her 
mother. doll lost her song. <\/em>
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n
I Had Nothing to Wear<\/strong><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
Grist for the millstone of Decadence, 

                                                        I had a party to make. Ground-birthed, deep over, shallow under, 

               my father was Rib<\/em>,\tmy mother, Everything-Is<\/em>. 

                                                                     I paraded around my chambers in furious skin.

An aspen\u2019s living fire draped my Nudeness. 

                                                                                                Wisdom tasted of blue velvet and milk 
chocolate. Body levitating in daemonic wind, fingers arched, I descended, fashionably 

               parched, down the imperial staircase.

                                                          Nothing, like a well-sought-after suitor, 

                                                                                                           stepped into the Ballroom of Matters. 

               Night fizzed at the windows. A masqued man bobbed for a black apple 

in a basin of oil. I laughed bubbles as Nothing extended a white-gloved hand,

               asking for a dance.

                                             Etiquette, naturally, enticed. 

                                                                                                    I treated him to prisms in the dinner 

of my mind, swung wide, head up, raptured. In the rafters! Rose and green 

                                                                                                                    Angels! The music rhapsodic!  

The party aswing! Bravura, the velocity delicious!

                                                                                                     He brocaded me into the absence 

caught in the wind-naked world 

                                                                       I forgot I lost. We waltzed, fordrunken, drumming 

the harpsichord\u2019s baroque pattering. \t\t\t       The ivory chandelier blushed.

                                                                                                                        Leaving<\/em>, Nothing said. 

The ballroom emptied into midnight\u2019s hall, and the circles we traced with our feet

became black holes into the green pastures of Arcadia, realm of Simplicity,         \t\t\t

                                                                                                               where Nothing waits for Eve.\t
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n
Skinning The Rabbit<\/strong><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
A  mind  that  isn\u2019t mine. A veritable puzzle box. 
Haunted  amygdala. Once was enough through 
that  vertigo  chamber,  blitzed by the harrow of 
a wind so dappled  with time  spent  drawing  a 
desolate    landscape.   I   swallowed   an  elegy. 
Choked   down  breath.  Two  months  after  my 
mother  died,  I  returned a no-one in the center 
that  mattered. Never have I bellied through dirt 
into  a  green heaven before. Land asunder. The 
earth    never    now    imagining,    forever    still 
birthing.  One  foot  for luck.  Two for more luck. 
Seeing   through   a  milk-muddled  oculus.  I\u2019ve 
gotten  paler.  I\u2019m  counting  down. My mouth a 
door  opening  rooms  too  small  for  largeness, 
too  large  for  smallness.  My mouth a door to a 
time   better   arrested.  My  language  Victorian, 
my   speech   ignored.  An  exile  from  life,  from 
that   closed   fist,   from   pedestrian   mourning: 
people  die  all  the  time.<\/em> Count me out. I stole a 
pocket  watch.  Covered  bruise.  I  am the girl in 
blue  wielding  the  hatchet.  I am Alice skinning 
the  rabbit.  The girl  stuffing  her  hands  in  her 
dress  pockets  until all of her is Inside, gone for 
good, like my mother, just like that. 
<\/pre>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n
Thou Mastering Me <\/strong><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
Cruel nude of the aspirant   
               Life\u2019s aperture whip      Nary a skin left
I ran right off that cliff \t\tScreen\u2019s a lyre     

light-seducer for your movable pupil      

               Never reveal what\u2019s under your filmslip<\/em>, mother said

Bound in the ballet of the no-more 
woman I relev\u00e9 into the mind made up mad

               An image resembles an image 
               I am and I am
not-identical to myself \u2014 typical of the lover

pursued        Feet leave new speech
whenever they tread\tSwear, it was\/wasn\u2019t me, 
I don\u2019t care if I\u2019m dead      Thou mastered me, 

Signifier    Recover my cadaver     I rewind forever\u2014




*title taken from Gerard Manley Hopkins\u2019 poem, The Wreck of the Deutschland<\/em>
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n
\n
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\"\"<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
About the author:<\/strong> Temperance Aghamohammadi is an Acolyte of the Exquisite. A trans Iranian-American poet, medium, and critic, she is the author of BATTALION SHAPED GIRL (DISCOUNT GUILLOTINE,  2025) and Behnt (New Delta Review, 2026), selected by Dorothea Lasky as the winner of The New Delta Review Chapbook Prize. Her work appears in The Kenyon Review, The Yale Review, New England Review, Fairy Tale Review, Worms Magazine, and elsewhere. She is an associate editor at RHINO Poetry and was a Claudia Emerson Scholar at the 2025 Sewanee Writers\u2019 Conference. Hailing from the Northeast, she currently haunts the Midwest. <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
About the illustrator: <\/strong>Miss Jaws<\/a> is Jessica Garcia; an artist and illustrator currently residing in Indianapolis, IN. She earned her BFA in Illustration from Ringling College of Art and Design in 2016. She specializes in digital and traditional art to create stylized works that tell stories centered around gender, socialization, and culture. Miss Jaws has been featured in publications such as Forge Art Magazine, Mieux, and VoyageMIA. Her illustrations and comics have also appeared in The New Yorker and Eater Magazine, in zines produced by art collectives (Fem)Power (of Miami) and Mujeristas Collective (of New York City) and independent publishers such as Josei Press, Radiator Comics and Isolated: A Pandemic Comics Anthology. Her art has been shown in exhibitions such as 2018\u2019s Beauty Conscious group exhibition at the Girls Club warehouse in Fort Lauderdale and BUTTER 2023 in Indianapolis, IN.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
In excerpts from her forthcoming chapbook \u201cBehnt,\u201d Temperance Aghamohammadi honors the relentless, transformative powers of grief while working against the orthodox tropes. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":37,"featured_media":74332,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[3099],"tags":[54,27],"byline":[9586],"class_list":["post-74113","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-sixty-lit","tag-chicago","tag-poetry","byline-temperance-aghamohammadi"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nSkinning the Rabbit: Four Poems by Temperance Aghamohammadi - Sixty Inches From Center<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/sixtyinchesfromcenter.org\/skinning-the-rabbit-four-poems-by-temperance-aghamohammadi\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Skinning the Rabbit: Four Poems by Temperance Aghamohammadi - 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