Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2019  Vol. 18 No. 2
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Diorama (there is a love story)

It’s between the invisible and the blonde girl.

The blonde girl is a snakeskin,
and the moonlit field is the snake.
Her dress is the tree

in which the snakeskin hangs.
Everything’s been peeled.

The worn paths between the houses
are the clinging that follows her wherever she goes.
The wind is a pelt

that the summer tries to make her wear.
The breathing beside her
must be her new mother.

A drained limb of an evening.

She feels it first inside her mouth,
the animal filaments weaving together and beginning to heal over.

Somebody approaches and tries to hand her a flower.
The soldier, probably. Maybe the doctor.
She warns them both as they approach

about touching her, about inflorescence.
She points to the ground and says
she’s willing to attach to the world at only one point,
so stay back. They stay back.

Good, she says. If they want to,
they can call that love.  

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