over the phantom trees by the back wood, girls find shelter in laps and butcher hands, which slip like river water. i remember that cold, that gray mistaken as exit wound, that girl who told me to keep walking through the billow, unsmoken bodied and hairstill. we bury the shrapnel like pearls as the thaw spits on the war exhibit with hail chips. the scythe squeezes a blue syrup in the sky and we assume this is the process of forgetting. we learned what parts of ourselves to kill and un-hue and how to nestle in other people’s mouths -- to lose the mass of your own ghost and the glints of family portraits that ricochets like a white asterisk. our bellies are filled with half-sharpened knives and apples throat-rottened and beautiful.
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