To dissect inflections
Your voice takes up a shape not unlike a pyroclastic flow
singe my peacemaking, eat away at my sugar tongue
a swarm of cloud clings to you;
there is ash in your eyelashes, my dear
I gnaw at the ‘why’ behind all slidings in your words
unparalleled, this pitch throbs electric,
rubbing against dead air
while the queen observes coldly.
Someone stop this
this morsel of fog
this granule of devil-dust
lodged in my throat
pile up, breaking
If my sobs could purge
this virus, if shards
of glass and loose teeth
could bleed this phantom dry,
I would emerge
from my tomb of blankets
trying to familiarize
myself with the morning.
Sarah Lucille Marchant is a Missouri resident and university student, studying journalism, literature, and public relations. She is a contributing poet at the Flaneur art blog, a slush reader at Every Day Poets, and has had her writing published several places online and in print.
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