Page 39 - Iterations:Other/Is
P. 39
Do you drive North? Turn to page 4
They bury me in the garden, again. Wild(owers, some the color of wine, others green & hairy thick with milk when cut grow on the bank swallowed by (ood; snails upon their gasping heads as the (owers bloom lift their stamens and pistils towards the event horizon
our mother weeps over a span of water, she lived her life without a voice —
this is not true, there is a journal, red striped blue cloth with her words before I was born trapped in a skeleton house, her handwriting curls and loops back into itself endlessly to cure the sacred ground blemished by the #eld stones placed there.
when there, at night, I would dream of the horse with no head running towards the shore towards the sunrise of corpses. A stranger would visit me, and those who I shared this bed with
I am mistaken, forget this ocean the perfect poem is already singing
my body a tooth of wheat milled.
