“Bovary” by Olivia Mardwig


Her eyes, what’s left of the room,

look darkly towards the song beside her,


the song that is beyond

this bed and has no face.


Her body dismounting

what is human, still,


waiting in the velvet hour,


in farewells, exaggerated breaths

becoming air-filled, dry chalk


tongue casting words and spit

like webs, left to rain.



Spring found us early.


The pollen falling into the bay

unto chimneys falling lightly,


the earthly senses

as with birds, rises up


above the water,

turning like pages.


One Response to “”

  1. Amelia Says:

    got me with that one awesome X

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