Summer 1993 • Vol. XV No. 3 Poetry |

Inside Out

She said she'd never reached one finger in, buried to its hilt, so never dreamed the slit really went anywhere, a bunch of folds furrowing her skin, not a door to her insides, and while she'd heard them say babies fall to earth from down there, they couldn't fool her with so unlikely a story, and so the first time anything came out---her blood, slipping down, forming drops, the red brine that kept her alive---she found the stain to be holy proof of what the voices always said, that the bag of her body was really a sieve, not a safe house to hold her, but one that would with age leak, and she'd be pulled inside out, for the substance that was her---drop by precious drop--- to seep away.

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She said she'd never reached one finger in, buried to its hilt, so never dreamed the slit really went anywhere, a bunch of folds furrowing her skin, not a door […]

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She said she'd never reached one finger in, buried to its hilt, so never dreamed the slit really went anywhere, a bunch of folds furrowing her skin, not a door […]

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