My God— My Hell—
gravel wedded pulp and bone in the fruit of my core,
gaping wounded knees pressing the searing flame of pain inward,
tidal waves of blood spilling human qualities within cracks of the asphalt reaper’s scythe,
the scent of patinaed copper taste buds,
and a dying autumnal fire lit at my roots,
a horrorscope of phantom roads mapping my thoughts,
a blind faith in the atmosphere levitating, immersing my body
My God— My Hell—
glass and mica mirror ball glamour on my feral calloused palms and heels,
splintered and spiked mace defense, weaponized
should my arms be hooked and pulled,
dragged to distances out of my toes’ earthly reach,
as my mind sought universal widths
in a clearing beneath a sonogram sky of swollen star bellies
Juniper Francis Lee. October 2018/August 2014
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