Death, that rascal crook, knuckles his hollow call on mottled skulls and scapulae sprawled across flyblown soil. His fingers, forks of feast and famine.
I dread you will find me,
worry you won’t.
I stumble on paths choked with gnarls of heartwood and roots. Belladonna. Nests of rodents that skulk. Day remembers the drag of my body. Night erases its measure.
My limbs tremble and fail me.
I hold fast to oak.
Each day a patchwork of bones, porous as evening’s turmoil. A thud of stone, currents sluggish with tears. An unfilled cup. For these gifts I offer praise bound with rushes just plucked from the pond.
I’ve not yet tired
of this tangle.
work appears or is forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Intima, Thimble Literary Magazine, London Reader, SurVision, Rogue Agent, Popshot Quarterly, The South Shore Review, The Fortnightly Review, Feral, The Phare, Sledgehammer Lit, Flash Boulevard, New World Writing, Emerge, The Disappointed Housewife, Tiny Molecules, Potato Soup Journal, and elsewhere. Her stories and poems have received Pushcart and Best Microfiction nominations.