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here it is

a single friction underneath a cello’s bow

the longitude is sharp and pricks her spine stretched back with silky stones to spare

effort greets the sun before her, swaddles the moon behind it

optics twist inside the flood

she’s sick with wet and a knotted rib that cracks, swings, and falls

a branch consumed

what’s traced her middle-hairs down, down


as it serves

every concert’s a dirge to the one before it, they both agree

or do they?

every note’s recorded and sung

on who’s tree?

figs are sweeter after spring

unless they rot


she admires her flesh pressing the net


aching from her luck

waking new in prairie’s seas

she’ll thank each grass

blade by blade

for their part in her empty tongue


if only she knew now what she knew then

that her secrets were noise

her letters, the key

her silence, the math


hold your breath, little girl

the end of war will ring out in the heat

the hooks will tear

the scars will bleed

and here it is

you’ll sing


arrows will arc beyond their music

paper planes will disappear

and here it is

in all that white

your stones

they’ll fly


April 2020 

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