Time’s playing hard tricks
a weird wall your syndrome
light blinking in as we sit cross-legged
shove the doll’s feet
thinness and thieves on a pitchfork
Remember that summer?
Spit and wing pain?
The redheaded me you could have shut
dark green gears, lamé?
The pull of sleep was not clean
and you hovered
while I kept false safety
behind the hutch.
We play pathos, six ribs.
You run your claws in triangle shapes
knives western wide
sketch storms on my ankles
warn me or warm me
men die at the end
before any moral.
–Featured Art by Joanna Jankowska
–Background Art by Barbara Florczyk