Brandi M. Gard
Sometimes, in splashes of russet and
crimson blood stains. Scent of woodsy
decay in their final cry. I find
myself pulling them closer. Worn
selling still of hard work’s tears
and dinner’s out Eternity.
Clean, crisp, cold. Winter’s first hymn.
The shoulder’s too wide, meant for some-
one tall and strong. Not my own
papery bones. My mother calls,
“Did you take it? He’s been looking
all over…” I lie, smooth and easy. Pull the
warm safety tighter. Absorb the
childish need like a balm, to ward
off the hollowing chill.
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