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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VIII, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I

 
Poetry


I am the dress my widow is buried in
J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden

 

The beloved came where event entered my body.

I gargled sweat I collected on the battlefield and suffocated her spy like a guppy in dead water. I washed her body before the wake of our parts took what was left of us to the majority. Afterwards I loudly sped across cells in the human train to site-see the depths of a sleeping land. I couldn't refuse. I fell into the exit with her constrained heart. The grave collapsing atop us she made herself my inheritance.

There is a love that requires a lover and for accepting her love we are sealed and branded. We are woven and tagged. I live with decay when her death feeds me or when I am the flower pattern in her dress. We've left no one else to bury the dead. But I no longer wait for the lover who is always arriving. Unawaken we meet and there is no longer depravity in our bones and tissues.

 

 

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