by Joyce Chong
weeds i. the street corners of his neck where it meets the shoulder, follows down the rocky collarbone cliffside where pulse thuds, a broken streetlight blinking red stops like a beacon, or some warning. ii. the landslide eyes, mud and dirt and suffocation; maybe you could build a supernova from the debris. iii. the weeds; roots clambering out from the edge of his jawiv. fluffs across your stomach, sink in flesh until you are a field, a vista hidden behind handprints: the mark of his skin along yours.
AFTER THE PAUSE VOLUME 1 ISSUE 1
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