Was never what we were supposed to:
the lilt of the living, salt’s savor.
It wasn’t the body’s bone-ripples, either,
or the sways of nurses’ crosses;
it was the truth of it all—
hunger’s chill,
the scream beneath the surface—
history’s echo tucking us back inside,
staring from the other side of the glass.
or the sways of nurses’ crosses;
it was the truth of it all—
hunger’s chill,
the scream beneath the surface—
history’s echo tucking us back inside,
staring from the other side of the glass.
