Poem: Who She Is
Oct 12, 2018
Listening to the internal tide
Her mattress an echo chamber crackling
Rippling out in a thousand creaks
Mimicking the catching of her lungs
Fabric of time trips up
Streams forward then
Slips sideways
A rolling fuselage
Across abandoned plains
Whistling grass in
A forgotten runway
Tortured hysteria as
Child ripped from breast
Wail tearing skies
Anguish trained refined focused
To soldering blue flame
First published in Pulp Poets Press:
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