auto-tuned sun


I become a pigeon,

stretchmarks and re-situated pain plunge me into a passion for living. No, I don’t want to release but reel in the unforgiving nature of skin and our oblong bodies. Lavender rain trickles into the cracks in obtuse shapes, acute bones protruding on replanted neon green grass. Together, we are geometric goo stacked, the world a formation of non-viscous blocks a toddler is trying to keep together. Sharpened, chiseled edges sunder, stronger edges step in. I grow back an arm by sharing this poem. It becomes a birch-limb for a nest of baby blue jays. You grow back a torso curled in to find the womb by hugging the electric esophagus. Via dolorosa is everyone’s favorite song. I do not believe in words through a microphone but how the wind allows the vibrations as it passes us to reach the river, and I want to love being thirsty.

The end of the world is an alive, auto-tuned sun.

Published by celinamcmanus

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