Samantha Istre (sam_the_artisan) wrote,
Samantha Istre

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refuge in a land of unabashed children

Every moonshuttered womb speaks in mythic chronologies, algorithms of abuse dismembered and reassembled, hanging like the limp spines of lilies. A celebration for the growth of small things, the intricacies of early cycles, opened milksplashed arms with expectation in their fingertips.

It is a helpless progression, heliotropes follow the movement of the sun to a chain linked tomorrow. Half-spoken confessions fill a pond deepened by the beveled solitude of stones and their heavyhearted descent.

Beyond the fence we trespassed shoeless and waded until cuffs of denim unrolled upon our ankles. When I turned toward the sun I was alone, the surface still memorizing the acorns you had offered to the green-winged dragonflies and hurried minnows.


I listened to the wooded afternoon: the ancient howls from clambering bedposts and clawed mattresses, murmurs mistaken for invitation.
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