Salt.

Marta
Frieda
Hart

      Salt, sultry sweet, soft cold clammy skin hot tears to meet.

                                             \... -.          /..\          .-.../                                                                               

      Grasping for allures that refused to last,

       Yearning for the past.

      Pale white blooms to red, flooded by angry seas that spread.

          \../        \../ 

       flee to be free

      from the sting and burn

      and a stuttering gasp that spurns
      [

      No

      Longer

      Beloved.

      ]

 

Tschüss

#42

Slick sweat sliding slowly

Over shining skin

Lick it up, every drop.

It is like the elixir to stave

Off—

Those nasty existential

Thoughts.

Holy hands help themselves into

Your various holes and crevasses.

The Victorian standards

Wrapping our world like ropes

            Perhaps comforting as a baby blanket

Falls apart—

Thread

            By

                                    Thread.

Under the dull pain of those

Loathsome moans

Somewhere

 Mixed in the

Juxtaposed organs,

 Somewhere

In the eyelashes

or the lips

or the neck

                        In that mellifluous symphony

                                    Of those crooked bittersweets

                                    Is like a justified
Religion.
Something like
                                                              Freedom.

Best,

Anna Belle Lee