The
game is silken,
scattered,
alive. There is
a
plan for me.
Ants
walk on water,
beetles
on string,
leather
cracks
where
pulled,
and
you
can’t
be serious.
My
thighs ruched up
against
my chest,
my
heart swollen shut
around
the seed, the hoofbeat
and
your train stop
and
the train, spurred
and
golden.
Alana Solin is a writer and collage artist from New Jersey. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Afternoon Visitor, Annulet, Second Factory, Tyger Quarterly, and elsewhere. You can find more of her work at alanasol.in.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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