There are mornings I thread silk ribbon from
the 2:00am sky along my back, stars rivet my flesh, fingers lacing upwards the
memories of white cyclamen hips in the grip of pumice stone palms and granite
fingers.
There are afternoons I draw the abyss of sockets
in skulls ascream with laughter or of clenching jaws in preparation for the
impending pain, giving the smudge and rust my blood given name, anointing the
soul of the medium with the oil of my rosette ringing fingertips.
There are days, far too many days, when copper pipes sound the
summer hiss of copperhead scales sunning upon a flagstone field, ruby-throated
stain extending to my breasts and thighs, the scalding shower bringing a new
layer alive.
E.A. O'Connell
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