in the name of higher consciousnes

rows of tumblers line her table like crops waiting for the harvest.

one for every day without you, dear, the glasses sing. she

is mimicking their soprano.

we are so easily shattered, warble the girl and her vices.

in a dream she traded her soleus muscle for enlightenment, then

swallowed nothing but gravity for three days.

she philosophized to the shadows, and held out a candle

to translate their responses against a wall with no building,

casting them in warm yellow light. finally, i am understood-

the thought erupted somewhere inside her ribcage, hit

her mind with the force of rushing water

and the desperate, adrenaline-indebted speed

of a dehydrated animal.

Contributor: Marina Kovacs-McCaney

Copyright © 2014 Marina Kovacs-McCaney. All Rights Reserved.


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