by Josh Black

We see it in the way the clouds move, side to side, almost imperceptibly, before the blood pours and settles into the streets. Then: The limbs to heal our phantoms.

Some nature’s bounty. Arthritic arms replaced, listless legs re-fashioned. Youth stitched into the skin of sallow faces.

We entangle ourselves, blood-slick, reconstituting in a bed of jagged bones.

The city: Much quieter now. We’ll do the test when it’s time, hope for the lines. If it happens, we’ll feign all the right things. We’ll make new memories, feel time pass, bid our kin farewell, wait for the sky to darken.

About Russ Thompson

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