Alexa Abrahams

At times the sun goes dark in my dreams

the longer I watch it—my tight-throated bird lungs
bind themselves to core. We are held together
as if by snake, this python devouring our land every morning

my sternum wakes halfway. Each time I lick
my fingers red with need, with wrenching blackout
from southern wall, with open sun blinding

to retina. Leopardess: Choose the hill into which you’ll decompose, choose
the bone you’ll pick around your canines like the scratch of steel
hunting-knife. Someday I will let myself wake

               before the sun like you. Somewhere on a hillside I will let myself
               raise a litter of German shepherds, a flock

               of Rhode Island reds. I will let myself grow ecosystems
               from these hands.

Alexa Abrahams is an undergraduate student at Salisbury University.

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