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: 

https://pulppoetspress.com/who-she-is-by-ann

 

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