Branwyn Holroyd

Issue #
October 3, 2017


To cut out the heart.
Show something
a little like grace––
the bluebird wing on the dashboard
or the winter birds
their charred and feathered
bodies under ash.

Who were you anyway?
To think you could escape
this aching––
Always a stranger, never at home.

Claim your one life.
Stomp your boots
under a new moon.

You glimpse
horizon light rising
like a copper coin
sewn between
your rib and lung.

Listen. The heart thump.
Its sticky magic thick
with crimson ghosts.

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