I’m vulnerable in ways a crocus blooms. I open
in winter’s dead. And my balance is coming along.
I can hold the Crow for nearly 33 seconds. But you
can’t even face me. Downward. You’re a dog in heat.
Feel my words protrude. You liked to lick. But you
lie when you speak about the kiss. Inhale. Exhale.
Winter has washed into Spring and the flow brings
deeper breath. Going within. There’s a wash to my
days, and I whisper secrets to city blocks at night.
The chalk as weak as your outline. But my breath
never lies. I was open. Splayed. Exposed. The Moth.
Water is my whiskey. Whiskey is my light.


survival isn’t always living
but there are days when it is life.
© Grace Black

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