Illicit Wrath

The close-up of our laundry, a twitch, here and there,

Unwanted, relieved. I cry out to the meagre sky and

Solidify my fists. I frame myself with crippled margins

And denunciate the anger in my chest. Hair engulfs the

Psyche, the eyeless pianist, an unsung plant, an unsettling

Release, highlighting the necklace you put around my neck

Like a leash, my sticky skin swallowing itself, turning to honey

And ash, uprooting itself, swollen and contained.


“Woman in blue dress” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)

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