Lara Bursal // CELLO

a row of fingers

placed delicately around her neck

do not elicit a scream,

for they do not choke her

–quite the contrary,

they conjure up

a sound that

tastes like spiced wine,

rings in the ears,

and settles somewhere between

the sternum and the spine.

 

her hollow figure

is hourglass,

skin of spruce

encasing space

that, in its vacancy,

holds a promise.

 

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