Answering a Call from the Bean Sidhe

May 22, 2017

She picks her words like they’re pins from grenades. 

The blasts were last night, but the shrapnel flies 

This morning. It litters my kitchen floor, 

chews chunks from my toes as I enter to 

hear what my phone bleats for. Each lamprey tooth 

carves words from songs we shared on cold mornings 

like this. Her skirt is still in the sink. Her 

last task for me, to clean the mud from its hem. 

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