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June 21, 2018
1/ ONE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. I’m awake, awake, awake, and porchlight glows are seeking the cracks in the blinds of our bedroom. I lift my hair onto the pillow—I can’t bare it to touch me when I try to sleep and it settles into place, a thick tongue above my head.
A FOREST OF FOLKLORE: THE EASTER EGG TREE
EGGS—long symbols of fertility, rebirth, and love—inundate just-budded trees throughout eastern Pennsylvania each spring.
The Wild Hunt
[Luna Luna Magazine]
VOICES CALL TO MY BLOOD. It hums when I sleep, electric skin, bones cracking from wood smoke. Marked throat, painted nails. Remember, there, with the woods behind us and the city before. Liminal spaces, creatures, voices. We’re kept in glass, in tombs, in waiting rooms. They press clocks into our wombs, fold over skin and conversation. Make us chase rabbits that turn into FunDip dreams.
MY TEETH ARE ASLEEP AND KIND. They bleach like limestone, crumble like slate. The old plates are merely lungs, long dormant, having breathed once, twice, long ago. My chest had lifted, my shoulder blades cracking together, pulled up and back. Volcanoes fell down my throat, swallowed into peace, their rumblings lost to other voices, the voices of ghosts who expose my fault lines with paths of asphalt and tar.
[Atlas and Alice]
RUBBER SNEAKER SOLES. Basement bars. Something out of Cheers. Glass bottles filled with amber, glinting dully against wood polished by arms, hands hammers on bartop. Billy Joel is crooning from a corner speaker, a low undertone. I sit under sticky tables, small hands swimming in wide stolen drums of bobbing maraschino cherries.
A bite of red teeth.
[Gingerbread House Literary Magazine] *Pushcart Nomination
HER FACE IS ABOVE MINE. Ripples murmur over her features—black brows in slim lines. A too-large nose. Perfectly formed lips in plumped half-wedges. Rounded cheeks, pale. A tumble of raven-hued hair. At first, she looks dead. A painting or another adaption of real life. Only a copy. But then her arms move, fingers barely penetrating the water, dotting close to my face. She is not dead, no. No, she is too alive. I sink further back, hidden among weeds and muck. She never guesses. Never sees me with those great black eyes, so like my own.