RapsfeldJill Alexander Essbaum
Dietlikon Morning, I wake to that shuddering house and I’m urged to follow a daylight moon. The sky’s attuned. What’s path is prologue. I’m passed by a man and his dog. The man bears bare and rabid teeth. I respond out of grief and habit alike. Graffiti mars its barn like a birthmark. A rued, bidden tension clenches the wind. And I am in a field of rape again. And sadness is meant to be had. The oilseed luster of the heart’s domain. It is a promise that nobody made. All loss is fire. It must be obeyed. So the pretty blond flowers haunt togethers and aparts. And my backbite is angry as silk, or scars. Or this jaundiced terrain that used to be ours.
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