By: Kate O’Neil

I’m ready; hit me with
that dark water;
Soft peach-skin buttresses my shoes;
my palanquin
lies uncreased.

In the muggy distance
I can almost make you out,
slumping closer
a staring, windlestraw horror.

Approach then. I’ll throw
down my gloves.

Both of them.

I am done shying away from what lies in the edge of the picture frame.