Emotional Toll

by KJ

look. I grasp that your heart is a brass, rust-encrusted
bell long since abandoned by the rheumy hunchback,
but if you would let me reach out for a gentle yank on
the blond, ropey braid dangling from your hollow skull,
I think the cathedral folk in Notre Dame might smile
at the exodus of startled ravens from your steeple
as they flap off for telephone wires, parks, & graves
because they, like me, nurse nostalgia for the days
when screaming was the only way to really breathe.

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Filed under Issue 3, Poetry

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