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The Body is Cleaved

 
 
 
Believe me, the body is cleaved the same

              as the devil’s foot, the split

too large to view

 

from the ground. As the earth’s curve

              refuses our clinging when for years

it refused to reveal its warp. I tell

 

my husband, place your hand here

              between my mother’s jaw I’ve inherited

and the sickled neck of my father—

 

Here, bring an offering

              of warmth to the boned caverns

which only sink deeper

 

after rain. He loses his grip

              to the quiet of night. I keep watch, keep

returning his sleepy fingers to

 

my chest. I’ll teach someone so they know

              how it aches. To carry home

both the Spanish ships and the cradleboards

 

splintering under their stern as they crush

              the coast open. To contain both

the ransacked room of the living and the cache

 

of blood which fills it.
 
 
 

Laura Espósto is an MFA student at the University of Arizona. Her work has appeared in journals such as Rattle, Word Riot, Bone Bouquet, and Reservoir.