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Seeing him broke the cocoon of my rib cage, and my heart unfurled to fly.
August is always the month of the deepest heat, the heat that reaches so far in the earth it boils the water in the wells.
The house is a drying animal skeleton, everything inside that was evidence of living salvaged over the years.
I will not let him see until none of us have any choices about what can be seen, what can be avoided, what is blind, and what will turn us to stone.
If I could, I would reach inside of me and pull out my heart and that tiny wet seed that will become the baby. Let them go first so the rest won’t hurt so much.
Junior’s back is a young turtle’s shell, so thin it would snap if stepped on.
But the wind grabs my voice up and snatches it out and over the pines, and drops it there to die.
I miss her so badly I have to swallow salt, imagine it running like lemon juice into the fresh cut that is my chest, feel it sting.
My heart is a wounded bird, beating its wings against the cage of my ribs.