Monday, February 22, 2016

lay figure

sandpaper thoughts to some old wound
that person you met six years ago
the one who, Medusa-like, hair in hands, drug
herself through water
the snakes happy for the electricity
the one who craved craze, the one
who followed moons until they, too,
were slivers,
one day woke up
finding the scars an unnecessary
sawdust pool
around her
and refused to allow anyone
to whittle or hollow since then
what only
she had the liberty to create.