The SacrificeThe SacrificeHer hands were wax,Dying wax.In the deepest corridors, she could have burnt her handsAnd when she ran, it was on stale cracked soles.Cloth had been torn, next would be fleshAnd when she found the final wallWithout a seam,Without a crack,Rusty red.She dreamt of her family, of the people she knewOf their pale white throats opening beneath her teeth.
SleepSleepI refuse to surface.I will turn my limbs into fins,layer my skin with scales.I will slit my throat, such delicate gills.Down here, they are mutable, shifting, first whalethen urchin, all spine and stomach.Up there, air and light fossilize,a trilobite caught in stone.
HomeHomeThree strangers nest, cracked orange vinyl booths,"Sweet home Alabama" blaring from a jukebox.All they know are roads unwinding like yarn from a dropped skien.Seven swan sisters with wings of pleated moonlight perch on the roof.They are searching for water.But all they find are pricking grasses and drainage ditchesFilled with water bitter and odd like drinking metal.The waitress pauses hearing the rustle of wings.One day she simply stopped drawn by a lighted square of light.Every night she sits until dawn in her trailer with a bottle of whiskeyWhich burns her throat, every swallow a violent noon sun.Only once did she find a bed that was just right.She listens until she knows every sound of this land.When the end of days comes, she will hear the hidden graves open.The swan sisters wrapped their wings around each other,Smelling the water that runs through them like blood,Their bone pure fingers untangling knots in each other's hair.The man leaves a tip, hoping for a
DroughtDroughtI watch for the painlike farmers who scan horizonsand wait for drought, knowingif not now, then soon.Yet we still plant, fingerthe dry soil, gather our omens.If a crow eats butterweed,tomorrow it will rain.What we know is notwhat we believe.
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