By Abigail M Donoghue

Crying is a privilege

You are a soft animal

Sound erupts from

A place we have never been

Unfamiliar rhythm

of hurt

I can’t keep hold of the beat


Language is a gift

How to move

verbs and

We held tight to them but

They don’t serve you


Every inch of you is covered

By hands and heat

Patting the pain away

No room for me

Covered in dirt

I cover myself

Indian style hunched

I hunch

But the hurt is not a shape

And this is not good enough

So we just sit in the dirt


Waiting for it to be


Waiting to know what is






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