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French Press and Severe Weather

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  • 2 min read

by Logan Roberts

A tool of tradition, a trinity of tridents.
Crystallized furrowed brows crumbling
under the weight of pests in control.
In control, not: caring, loving, conceiving,
convincing, in control.
Writing fiction in non-fiction. Spoiling the body
with fruit mush left out in the sun.
This is beyond raisins. Beyond empty graves
cast in a shadow of doubt. The salt was only salt.
A district at the core,
a tradition of bloody tridents, bent and broken,
scrambled like eggs in a rusty pan,
seasoned with rouge powder.
It’s a scramble for power, as time ticks
with sickle hands. Add up the angles,
lightning strikes at a slant against the face
plastered on all the televisions,
like in those science fiction stories
we love to pretend are fiction stories. Document hell
in the landscape of fish out of water,
no water, only the rouge rust dust crystalizing
in the brow of beasts hungry for anything green.
The thunder was only thunder.
Skin flushed green, something unheard of, undiscovered
against the face of an empire with a trinity of tridents,
made and used as a vigorous hammer,
or sorts. Existing at a longitude and latitude,
all truth at all longitudes and latitudes. Converging
on the stem of a storm touching
the ground like a thumb from the sky. Breaching
the crust for a glimpse of divinity.
When the door was opened
there was no wine press to be seen, the air was not
as sour as expected. The rain fell sideways.
The ash was only ash. The room was full of cupboards,
and the cupboards were filled with midnight,
and in the cool light was a kiss.
A trinity of tridents touching soft lips.
The aroma of the air
was filled with tigers and cherries.

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