by Amanda Feinberg

The body restrained and
skulled on swollen stomach.
Blue veins slice cheeks and pool shut.
We shove green and old, twist out heads.
Inside spirals. Gold won’t see beyond blood.
She memorizes metal
stuck in veins. Wakes tingling.
Parchment ruptures, breathes,
blossoms up.
The women weaved to skirt,
whisper prayers
and pull.

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Amanda Feinberg is a fiction and poetry writer from Washington D.C.. She works in the mental health field.