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Mountains

You shouted my name at the mountains and they shouted it back, this you told me. I
imagined you doing this, your golden freckles hidden under warm clothes, in a colder
place, your golden freckles coalescing on the peaks of your pale shoulders. I think of it
when I crush white peppercorns, I think of it when I lose my breath in bigwater sleep and
wake up spinning in a murmuration of gasps. Some birds are scavengers, you know.
Some birds want your eyes only after you’ve died, an easy pluck, a blue roadside fiction
kinged in the dreamtime. Some nasty birds want your sleekboy underbelly, rabbit-soft,
mulched under by pilgrim moans, forever white and inert. No need to sorry back the
blood.

 
 
 

Anna Lea Jancewicz lives in Norfolk, Virginia, where she homeschools her children and haunts the public libraries. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming at Bartleby Snopes, The Citron Review, Jersey Devil Press Magazine, theNewerYork, and elsewhere. Yes, you CAN say Jancewicz: Yahnt-SEV-ich. More at: http://annajancewicz.wordpress.com/