Leaves brush my neck.
Winter breathes and stirs my legs.
I taste the pebbles on my tongue,
blades of grass coat my lungs.
The gravel strains my curves.
Sand bites through my nerves.
The smell of rabbits on the moss.
The sky presses its palm —
My waist uncoils,
my spine rocks.
Frío, frío,
the birds talk.
Posted in response to the challenge River.
Your gut curdles.
Your skull stays stiff.
Your flesh shakes,
your feet are wet.
The world can’t fit
inside your shell.
Your skin splits —
Hey, Mr. P,
I saw a paper airplane
and remembered you.
It's been too long —
my paper world rips;
these hands are painted with cuts.
Body nested in the damp grass,
the sky gazes over my skin.
Feet pulled by the still stars
while the earth keeps racing.
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