when I close my eyes,

my bones quiver like I’m

the girl I was last summer,

waking up eighteen on

the banks of the river,

four inches deep in little boys

that press themselves flush

into the creases of my barefoot callouses


it’s there:

honeysuckle, rationed

single drop by single drop,

nectar touched so gently

by our green mother

that it’s bitter to my tongue,

pressed inside my cheeks,

to bite, to knead,

sewn into silk-hewn soil

that bleeds roots from seeds,

bursting leaves like sunburst skies,

like the amber-glossed eyes

of every horse I led to water

only to never let them drink


by Alora Ray

Alora Ray is 20, temporarily lives in Northern Virginia, perpetually lives in a state of denial, performs for whimsy, writes by necessity.

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