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ePaper created 2013-10-09, 06:36:00 | version 1.25.20
197 Our womb sang like guns & we rose swimming in the rose of our own incar-nation throwing a corpse underwater. Savor the savior, its high-beam mouth, its grimace-togs. Molluscs grown out of cornfields reach for the stars. We took it to mean, we took it upon us, just as bent as affection. Key is homonym. Your anxiety seated like a bird in a dream-like town. My straws bid me to common relaxing, in my hand my hand his hand like old leaves. -Monica Mody