Her
Natalie McCann My mother isn’t lonely enough for Poetry so she passed Her to my brother. My brother isn’t sad enough for Poetry so he passed Her to me. Now She serves as the monster residing in my closet. She grows hungrier with each word I give and asks for more until I go to bed with no words left, just a stack of papers making cuts across my ribs and lead pulsing underneath my fingertips.
Volume 30 Issue 1
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