His body lays still, skin flaky like paperbark. How long, she wonders, placing Myrtle across his chest —the white flowers pop against the atrament-black of the forest burial ground. Lips stained dark-blue like Haskap jelly are already fading; she has stood by long enough. She stamps out her Viceroy cigarette, the tip of her shoes a muddy cattle-brown. In the distance, a pileated woodpecker jackhammers into the void; petrichor filling her lungs. And through the trees, a tiny shard of light—the secret opening of the universe-—a wisp, the colour of smoke disappearing.
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April 2024
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