TAYLOR SUPPLEE
Changeling I would keep my twin, who did not live, deformed with strong vinegars among the root cellar jars. Provisions scarcely seen this low, there are some consequences whose crime is a simple price to pay and ravishing. An emergency of hawthorn and burdock, the phlebotomist’s butterflyneedle reveals no relation— a changeling, I am unbrothered, ransoming at the wiccan hour, the orchard soured in a season of early frosts.
POETRY | 125