| The old trees shake out medals at midday to the ship paused for a meteor’s blunting glimpse in the windy yellow of the water, partway to inventing another world. Through the window’s tiger slats, the bakery pumps smoke, years between her irretrievable shawl, which crimsons what I see, watching further and further, until canisters shatter into nitrate stars, late at night, saluting an unforgiving song. I tilt down on her iron bed and cluster haunted basil, the scent rifts morning open to argon of cobwebs, the dim cargo, the bent hills, the black gold, her hands, clasped shut her children, long gone, under the sea. Copyright © 2016 Ishion Hutchinson. Used with permission of the author. |
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