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"Spirit of Sappho"


In a day that had dissolved like alka seltzer in vodka, he hitched up his pants to find a trail barefoot through the fine print and hieroglyphics of their past dumped from a desk drawer sacristy defiled for securing a clearer conclusion on the mean floors of home.

Byron accordioned into a lagoon of letters traced into jumbles on the back of his mind swarming to a point off the verge of cosmic reckoning. His spine stirred the ghostly moor of sultry pallets lost in phrases tossed like potato peels uncaring from their nutrient core. Words tepid and hard from incision for a chamber molded in castaway kitchen plastic and outhouse boards weathered by the footpaths of wearied generations clung to the derision of ragged toenails catching on Millicent's woven rug now. The material world they shared spoke in harangues to harrow a hushed line on the damask chest upholstered from their saga bound over offices anointed in vows sworn of blood sewn to bone hatcheted to latch trays layered with whining.

The steel-handled claw hammer chattered from Byron's left hand and clamored into the brass box at his heel. Millicent moaned splayed unkempt on the sofa covered in an absinthe of times and decades slithering against months mounded onto the hills of her breasts from the plains pliant of her belly fermenting over the next query to their essence of era and eros.

I just like you, she typed privately into his Facebook friend page.


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text and graphics c. Jeannette Harris and A Country Rag, Inc. February 2015. Jonesborough, TN. All rights reserved.



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