the floods


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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