BY MARISSA MOSES
Sitting on the crown of Mount Phaere, legs full of ash and mud.
I see his silhouette on the horizon; strong and stretched taught.
Sitting on the crown of Mount Phaere, stitching my fate in the seams of his shroud.
I envision myself immersed in the sea as I embroider.
...How I die of thirst.
His song steels across the valley;
vibrating on my lips as I inhale,
echoing on my palate as I expire.
Vibrant and lost in my veil, he drifts on the breeze till he catches a twig.
His breath builds behind my shroud like a wet balloon.
Grains of fabric wrap round his neck…caressing the contour of cheek and chin as chiffon slips down the throat;
embracing lips, caressing brow.
A puddle of images slops between his ears and his eyes see only dark.
He chokes with every breathe he takes.
Oxygen travels through the weave of threads as he respires.
Gasping; his hands dig in the soil, reaching for something wet.
Through earthworms and weeds he deepens his grasp;
particles of earth building under his nails till the skin breaks away.
The taste of earth, a pool of sweat.
He fondles the place where my breast used to be
as the wind wraps fabric tight 'round his face.
Connected to mud, connected to me, he stands as the mountain;
shoulders exposed and glistening in the moonlight.
I hum the song he used to sing
in the days he had a voice.
...He was sweet then.
How I lost his mouth I can’t recall.
I’ll hum his tune till the wind reflects the trill of my tongue.
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