by Taya Boyles
The sinew and the paper mill’s smog
reach the clouds like the first time holding hands
and the last.
Oh, Eli Somer, if you know, you know. #MADD
You would know I ghosted the edges of my soul
and found no seam,
a single thread I could rob
from ‘immaculate’ conception.
No pinnable pattern,
a chameleon in a forest
with ever-changing shades.
One can keep their bandages dry
if enough bodies sink
for them,
never unstitched,
never undone.