© 2019 Orris Root

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[It curdles]

It curdles.

Whatever it is, the moon perhaps,

 

the equation of raised hair on skin, or

the tongue of doubt that eats

 

like a flower. Anyway

it curdles. Two-dimensional depictions

 

of light on glory, the violence of

right, tenderness

 

beckoned. Please go.

The purple in my muscles squelches.

 

Fear isn’t flat, I’m trying

to deny science.

 

Arthritis crunches in the mind, featherless, sure

of certainty. Gentians

 

lick sunlight. I wiggle

my toes and wind swallows

 

us both — the flash drive and me —

spits night back

 

into my eyes: cool water

and silence. Indulgence travels on

 

with a cloak, just another viajero

peddling his trade. I fall

 

awake into manzanita scrub and blessed

sky, my ribs still aching with corn syrup.

Tiffany McFarlane--Copy of an alien conn
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