the sap that I am springtime makes me want to reread Virgil's Georgics while eating cacio e pepe with fresh-shelled peas this morning over coffee I watched a video of spinach leaves washed of their cellular information and bathed in stem cells until they became miniature hearts vascular hopes capable of want to roll down a hill of clover to cold-spoon chrysanthemum gelato or to stop whenever their phones autocorrect gps to god the sublime is a suspension of disbelief the earth has gotten sentimental this late in the game with its smells of gasoline rosemary and woodsmoke the Rorschach of vitiligo on my eyes mouth and throat the ongoing argument between self and selfhood the recognition of the storm the howling wind I wish I could scream into someone else's rain Copyright © 2017 Emilia Phillips. Used with permission of the author. |
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