by Allison Grayhurst
The ground that grows
the wasteful blight and
estranges the kiss and hiss of wildlife
is in me like a slaughtered tribe
that has no face that doesn't bite.
I am in the nightmare cloud, wrapped
in tar and rotted wood. I hide
beneath the blanket, undone.
Sickness has walked around me, mile
around mile and names me this stone chiselled
in two. It is the beginning, but it is midnight
and I am marked to be unmoved.
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