by: Monica Mills
twenty-three numbers in his name
it harps like snarky buzzards leeching flesh
a taste so blue burned it’s hardly not there at all
twenty-three numbers in her name
the sound of it tastes like sweet
mud of lily rivers south
smile, it gives me papercuts
count them down my arms
these peonies drowned thick in bile
where our letters converge
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About the author
Monica Mills is a Jamaican-American writer and poet. Her work appears in The Anthologist, The Normal Review, The Quiver Review, and The West Trade Review. Monica enjoys rainy days and ginger tea.
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