the fortune tellerKristy Bowen
Occasionally, she goes out, rubies in her mouth, mapping the backs of men. The pale insides of their wrists. The horses can smell it on her, this fear of the dead. The drowned. The misaligned. We burn a circle in the grass to ward off the magician. His sad trail of red scarves, his pockets full of cards. Lately, she's discovered several women beneath her dresses. All of them practicing pleats and dreaming pencils. I teach them to whistle and hold water in their throats like plastic birds. We unravel every god like linen. A seam opens and the murder falls out.
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