waxwings

Room Magazine - - CONTENTS - AMY LeBLANC

in a scourge she saw blue pin­pricks around my scalp. she bent my belly through the worm­hole, bal­anc­ing sprigs of ev­er­green be­tween my kneecaps, baggy un­der fleece. she dripped an­ti­sep­tic saliva into my navel and pulled mus­cle from my ribs to lick them clean. silken and masked, the ven­ter rot­ted first.

I saw blood and con­fetti toe­nails and bed­sheets the shade of claret. she buried what was left be­neath us in the dirt and wrapped my un­sus­pect­ing body in a chrysalis a tourni­quet she cau­tioned chil­dren like me that my fin­gers could twist into pret­zels splayed cater­pil­lars or gap­ing plaster. she told me not to be too full and I de­liv­ered on a bed of lined furs and leaves. the waxwings were hid­den in hon­ey­comb holes,

frozen by the hum of an unan­nounced storm. I drank sap from the sides of pine cones around me and felt pal­pi­ta­tions in my re­mains.

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