Cyanide and Apples
I went to sleep under an ancestral spell
Interred, entombed, preserved in DNA
I went to sleep to dream my prophecy
Again, as always, of old growth forests
I do not want to hear an engine start
I want to breath like paper being crumpled
I want to hold my breath until
Until the wad of paper condenses to a seed
A seed watered in the warm earth of my mouth
A tree must grow with the red wood of my tongue
The dawn will not touch my tomb
I will be cloaked and covered. Evergreen.
Gail Little has been in love with language her whole life. She enjoys studying
languages both ancient, modern, and constructed. She previously wrote under the
name Abigail Ashing.
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