Hazel colored Kolmården,
a marble cutter,
showed me one morning.


That’s what her eyes,

looked like against nightfall,

when she begged.


“Save me,” she whispered,

as feathers formed,

and drifted in the same breath.


I exhaled smoke,

And watched,
galaxies vanish between our lips.

What about my concrete,
and harbored self,

led her to ask?

Which vials possessed her

to prophesize,

a messiah in me?


by Romila Barryman


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