by Samantha Duncan
into swaddled narrative
tendon stretch, neuron-wide fall.
My garish cartoon life-gap
caulked your bones with milk
and drowned my landscape,
made of decades
a simple cutout smile.
Disappearing is an easy
stake in the ground, but here,
hunger doesn’t have to know
a mouth. May your character
awaken in a few years,
quench me with clay or ash
or blood. Meanwhile, I fold
my bones into their most
welcoming meridians,
where everything’s expectant:
mother, waiting, void.
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