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Willow
By: Rachel Chitofu
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I’m bewraying the head at the back
of my neck. 360 degree rotation.
The human door mat, skull sculpted
but unhued
—thread of pointers. Red
alarms. Beach shells. footprints
—racially unspecific; lead to
the local store.
An unravished pour
of cold
black beer Mr Brown knows
where it’s from.
I’m ten tanned toes. Like big brown
bears
in makeshift heaven.
A new state of mind.
My mother—her deathly cliff
drowningly deep and incessant/
this year’s summer
fleet monsoon
Color of suppurated Fall
She died in the rain a believer
of some sort. Acknowledging
matriarchal heat.
Full forest-bud feathers opening.
Here: flesh and fear we are
the offspring of infants who loved
the wind bulging
sore with feet
beaconing heat,
chasing Spring:
the old dog’s nose lost on mellow
pumpkin down Yellow.
Liver street.
The winged Earth: circle-mounting its prey
will be the one prayer of man’s being saved.
Robots and spaceships they murmured alone
from a joint
humanly palm.
Every Ending: there’s dread
and red
for love bleeds in
our outwardly parts