Poem by Rachel Eliza Griffiths
Photo by Jill Burhans

 
 
 
Woman, Death Mask

The face spreads beneath pressure of the dark. A house sits upright in a field of wild. Silence climbs the cheek & jaw, the thought curling on its side on the cold dirt. A voice locks itself in the oak tree.  The eyelids pull back with no courtesy. Against cold dirt a word gets up a little and then falls forward, pierced by the pressure of the throat giving up. 



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