by Anastasia Jill
I press my ear to him, hear the slosh of blood
against his collarbone -- the pillar his anger paints
In broad strokes, claiming to be lamb.
I only speak in plagues; and hand to cheek is my Passover,
my mark of red buys silence, but I want the house to fall,
right on him. Here comes the floods.
Anastasia Jill (she/they) is a queer writer living in the Central Florida.
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