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.