it’s nice in virginia. warm. takes only weeks to undo and loosen into bone but her body, forgetful and restless, moves on from her to bigger things. recreating indefinitely, ignorant of the self it used to be, now shimmering somewhere instead on sputnik-6 & a graceful maryland petri-dish. the other lonely bones beside her scoff. their bodies dead in place. is she sighing now and giving up life to her tired hands once more? her red nails, once busy with the things of living (drinking in the froth of dish soap, wet with spit & wiping small faces, fidgeting with her skirt hem, reaching for some salt) now chipped. come morning, she’ll feel it bubble up again. the greedy self will open, cold & coiled; far away. and with some insatiable impulsion she can’t explain, the knot in her womb will unspool, some slight slack of relief, only to gather more thread to knot more. each fleck & crumb splitting and catching light made again dizzy with both death and newness, with fingernails barely still hers, she’ll claw to the sunless bottom of all the vile things that make us live, only to find more.
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