Wild

From the fire, we make
clay, from the heartstrings:

witnesses. There is only
one path we’re inevitably

going to follow–self-fulfilling
prophecies wrapped

in magnolia petals. Who
doesn’t dream 
of being

stolen away?…Somewhere
shiny and unfamiliar,

blame plumes and red
legs that go on for days–

it doesn’t matter if
the feathers are from

a crane or the doll left
behind decades ago.

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