i’m peeling back my skin and drying my bloodied
fingertips on

hems of skirts of women of households that i
am blind to

i can’t see anything clear anymore and it’s
okay with me

four crows lead me to the sick dry field where
i find my brother

his carcass is slipped under a wool blanket, needle
fresh in his vein

dragging it out, i wipe it on my clean white
wedding dress and

lower myself to the ground to sleep beside him
under the covers

everything is so grey and i think i’m going to
cry but i dream

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