Wooden poets buoy above the lawn

on knees carved of earth and splintered words,


spitting fire to grave. They ember on

in true pyrrhic fashion, flutter and burn.


Women with lips like peach pits plant coals

under their tongues and lay with palms agape,


effigies in flesh. Your bones shiver and roll

into velvet sky, the living aflame.


Their faces smolder violet and rip seams

beneath their eyes to glimpse Jupiter’s pass


through watered cosmos, and the stars recede

until you become silhouette and ash.


Katelyn Delvaux

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