From the Void

Dark drank the moon,

a cube in her drink,

contained sin

in a glass quarantine.

The cream of water

lay between her

legs like ointment,

dabbing at a sore heat;

earth stabbing at her

red, poor feet

each dawn of spring

in white socks,

no shoes,

blind with no reason,

sequestered each season,

like this one,

for a verdict:

 

a red potato was born

this day

in the palm of her empty hand.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

Photo by Keith Grantkeith-grant-void

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