A thin dark string of garnets bought to mark me, somehow, new, then only later thought, homage, shadow, cord, read how those who’d lost loved ones to the guillotine marked themselves, too, at parties, cut hair, pale shifts, red ribbons cross their throats. Sly winking, like condensation, around those who live through ruins, who rise in the binds of another’s sorrow, dark, frail, unaskably forward. When I went to see him after, a friend who knew me in the prior days, we talked of you, of concessions and the narrowed choices that come with time. Then, his offer shy, polite...Read More
Author: Angelica Sgouros
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