Margaret Wack
You are tangible as I am sometimes not: the bones of small things, shrews and hummingbirds, cracked bellicose shards of the earth rattle in your throat on the red inside, where I would kiss and make raw the lining of that gentle voice. You are exhaling all the hours I could lie without breathing in an attempt to chain time to my soft deer lungs, in an attempt to traverse mountains, in an attempt to feel your skin on my skin.
Margaret Wack has previously had her work published in Strange Horizons, Liminality, and Devilfish Review, among others. More can be found at margaretwack.com.