by Kelsey Dean

On the fragile days
      [when I am built entirely of metacarpals
      and my toes don’t feel right against the ground]
I crack like a pinky knuckle
in the joint of a door, all fissures
and bruise. On the acid days
      [when it burns and burns]
I swallow, I bird, I nest and lay a wing across my eyes
until the throbbing eases
and I can gather together all the right bones.

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May 15th, 2019

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