The recording is nothing more than fragmentation.
It comes and goes. Returns and goes again.
Yet every so often she takes a turn
through sharp vowel, through fierce elocution.
Words become messages from the grave:
Daylight would be more audacious. (silence)
_____Blood. (silence)
________Sweated and wept. (silence)
___________Thorny, like flowers. (silence)
_______________The shadows stoop over. (silence)
Then her voice grows whole,
speaking of black boots and priests,
and those S’s that slither through
to snake every syllable.
Each bite sinks into night.
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