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Unripe morning

cut open too soon

gushes sour light across the sheets

to curdle dawn’s uneaten skin

and sluices down the culverts

where night squats

facing into the corner

still fingering its curious soft wounds.

Betsy Sharp (she, her) lives and works on a small, off-grid island in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has appeared in Heavy Feather Review, Creative Nonfiction, Capsule Stories, The Sun, Crab Creek Review, and other places. Find her on Twitter: @BetsyASharp.
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5 Dec 2022

We found you, and you alone, in a universe that had forgotten to die.
there is something queer about this intention—
In my calculus class was a man in an iridescent polo and pigeon feathers in his dark, tangled hair.
Friday: Into the Riverlands by Nghi Vo 
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By: RiverFlow
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