by Lynsey France
they say recovery is trying twice
when blood dries, gnats swarming the only sentence that’s safe to
return to
I am still waking from my last death because you will not forget her
what was it she said when she prayed with her wings instead of her hands
oh, yes: my feet throb and I can’t migrate with the stones in them
blue birds have yet returned with red heads
on the hound’s tongue
February, not March; a long, dark distance between them
placed myself against a wall
it was a term that should’ve been alongside its savior, it was what you tried to be
couldn’t hold like it held the picture
–that was always my skin collecting those things anyway
don’t tell me I have wings yet, I’m still gluing feathers
in the center of war, it’s what I’m doing
it’s how my heart will breathe
a bloodless soldier, the most unfit for this duty
when they pass me I don’t know which direction to face, which side I’m on: the target or the other one
every prayer is static the voice can’t defend itself in
like some undergrowth, my ribs disclosed, the only cage that protects nobody
they’re still saying you’re weakest here, erased
how will I know any strength if I don’t try–that the only participation award for that kind of thing is your life
the kitchen knives have the same silver ending with my name
filleting sprouted mold on the windowsill’s orchid
I am still asking who dies here
what happens when a door gets lost opening?
until doves escape instead of flies
always thinking of passings, aren’t we
remember when
I closed my eyes to hear a tomorrow in another room
east-preying winds inside of these mountains, scattering dust
I am not a catacomb
with bones, clinging heirloom on the vine underground
take me out of this sentence now, I might’ve said too many times
this is not a body bag
© Lynsey France
Lynsey France (she/her) is a teen writer/textile artist living in Kentucky where she attends her local college to further her passions in the arts.
Find out more on Instagram @dust_collections.
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