A Poem by Elizabeth Gray, Jr.

it’s still dark and cold. Andrew’s rib
under her arm his scent the undeniable
fact of him warm and even when he’s sleeping
American, holding on for her
to all that loosens its hold:
what she told people when asked
for example the story about before
when we were some kind of bird
beaks buried under the outer layer
of each other’s feathers.

Listen to her read the poem here:


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This entry was posted on March 2, 2015 by .
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