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WHEN I FIND OUT WHAT THAT MEANS, I’LL LET YOU KNOW by W. C. Perry

that our forest is inseverable,

fabric and boring

 

Autumn arms threadbare clothing

eager to be cut with scissors modeled by a swan

 

her job prospects are booming, humanity is cosmetic,

mascara will not cling to feathers

 

she is an artist in the gravest sense:

velvet roundtrips over the cemetery gate

sans filigree

 

commonly known as: without decorum

 

a yearling in my own practices, an apple head of blood

shivers from my thumb, my needle,

I was only trying out embroidery

on myself, fingers a lace web pattern

 

and when I don’t feel confident in every scrap of work, I produce

worthless, leafy doodads

 

our coin jars repurposed from espresso tins insufficient

our rent goes down and I’m fine,

hungover in the garden patch.

 

You take the photo.

W. C. Perry is a writer from southern Ohio pursuing a BFA in Creative Writing at Wright State University. Their works focus on loss, family, spirituality, and the midwestern landscape. Their work has appeared in Garden, Prometheus Dreaming, and Lupercalia Press’ VULCANALIA ‘21.

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