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Oona Feb 2017
hand around stomach, she thinks
(this cannot be right) the way
his hands feel like they are burning
holes in precious porcelain skin she
promised she would save, maybe to
never give away. the way her fingers
begin to web and her mind goes
fuzzy and he’s still reaching
for her, all bone-finger and
finger- bone. maybe this
is what it feels like to
grow into the ground.
feet slide into fertile
mud (slides up her
legs past veiny thigh
purple lines trekking
below soft skin)
branch explode
from arm
waist slim
to bark
eyes rose-
petal pink

— The End —