by Meriwether Clarke

He speaks, each word
is a saw on my bones.
Cortical dust plumes around us,
fragile as smoke.

His skin reddens.
My skin stretches,
holding all these pieces in,
muscles floating freely
clinging to nothing.

Do you hear me?

My ears open wider.
Night-blooming flowers,
growing on the front of a storm.

Read Meriwether Clarke’s Woman at the Well

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