Wednesday, June 1, 2011

#012/100 Unborn

She would put her eyes on a plate & hand it to him. Even the blood dripping down her face would taste sweet, the new-found blindness & its microscope, into a world that vanished. 'Here,' she would say, fumbling until he caught her hands.

Her hands were wings; they broke & she landed where she did. 'Here,' he says, leaning back in the light. When she turns to look at him, she is a bird sewn-shut in fright, diving into the lava of unborn love. She can no longer flee.

Check out Dorothee Lang's image and Susan Gibb's story about Freedom. 

1 comment: