The death of the hand that is upset, it’s like the yellow hills amid the oceanid-eyed that hunt for the ghosts they want to strangle; I was traced beside the clock a ship of blood in our arms; the root-child criss-crossed to the mirror; In a sea I go down whispering in slight dark think I am a snowball in hell; I am a barbed leaf in the debris. I make myself empty of your words; they float on my bones onto the teeth of Atlas with heaven whoring on his shoulders so much for the moon swallowing the sun to magnolia fields raped from first seed, to the sea glass shattering upon my hands. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
Reposted for the dVerse live poetry reading which you can watch here. I read around the 9:52 stamp.