Who She Is

Listening to the internal tide

Her mattress an echo chamber crackling

Rippling out in a thousand creaks

Mimicking the catching of her lungs


Fabric of time trips up

Streams forward then

Slips sideways


A rolling fuselage

Across abandoned plains

Whistling grass in

A forgotten runway


Tortured hysteria as

Child ripped from breast

Wail tearing skies

Anguish trained refined focused


To soldering blue flame



First published in Pulp Poets Press: 



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