Kathleen Buchholz

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Brown leaf

you did not make it quick. 

There was no knife to scrape my bones, 

—no knife to puncture my flesh,

It was bruises, it was blue, it was black,

It was ugly. 

 

My wounds sank deep, pinning me in my plot 

They twisted my insides, turned my stomach to stone.

jagged rock jutting from flesh,