Im AegertJill Alexander Essbaum
At mourning, I’m a laureate. Cast this head on a brass coin. I’ll assume a glass crown. This morning, I wake to inner alarm. The guess that darkness isn’t all there is. That there is more, that the relative next is worse. Sunrise is glacial. The snow is chalk. I lilt when I walk, like a drunk. A reproach of birds condemns me. Am I game? Don’t shoot. I pitch from one periphery to its brother. I am a chill that can’t be burned away. Not with sunlight, not with love. Of course there is something worse to come. Like: when god doesn’t answer a prayer. Like: when god does.
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