Zephyr

It will blow in gingham patterns.

It will dress your smile as one smothers

grade A beef patties in grey poupon

and thinks themselves superior.

 

It will cross your bloated meat in

depleted veins with the patience

of first presents wrapped by children.

 

It will soak your hair in dehydrated

mustard urine, a cafeteria salting

lamb. Like a god left out of style,

plaid rotting in decades past, it will

hang you to dry on the butcher’s

twine as though you had no meaning

to gravity anymore. The buttons

 

pop on alveoli, seams frazzled

outside grey matter. You’ll know

once checkered in soil and jaundice.

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Published by

Jenna

Hello, fellow bundle of nerves and flesh! I'm a simple little being who's half-poet, half-scientist, and all gelatinous chaos. Sort of like an illogical marshmallow. If you'd like to learn more, please seek out the "First Impressions" page. Thank you for the visit, bundle friend.

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