Birth, Rites

The breadth of our breath.

landscape photo of road under blue sky

I suppose something like this–––?
must have carved and sanded the long
lines of my grandmother’s gaze
to the texture of skin, its paper-thin drape
like gift wrapping nearly off,
the long dissonance of ambient noise
resolved in the music of her
late laughter.

Author: Stacey C. Johnson

I keep watch and listen, mostly in dark places.

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