Written by Ellie Onka
leads me back to my past,
fatherly stones burn my feet,
these oceans will be extinct.
I’m pissed at God, but tell me who has not been,
and because I dream, my skull surfs in torrents
in the fed echinacea leaves, and scimitar tree-limbs
the red gut of the Atlantic, and the frozen fingers
of rock; summer smites, sandspit
dissects her dead
feelings from her feet to her head.
Text © Ellie Onka
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