When we think of sticks, do we think tree; oh
bramble of me
; what part of us, scatters wind,
becomes home to something other; how your
skinny bones in drape, mulberry limbs; oh slats
of light, ribs of
; & dusk always resides in chest,
in fissures between lobes where all of us lie
temporal & disoriented, oh this piece of; suture
back; yes a question, no no an answer; how
skeletal the bark of us, word & flesh; I left me
for you
propped against the girth of trunk; how
we shed ourselves over & over: snake bundled
in snake skin; once, yes, once we were one.


Felicia Zamora
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