a willow. Or better yet, a cherry tree.
Washington biting into her
wooden lips, an axe
for teeth, for tongue.
In a flurry of falling flowers,
snowing the earth with petals of her flesh.
She died as pure as she lived.
Martyr, virgin, sacrifice.
find a pulse still beating.
Her blood is sap, I lean to kiss
the resin that drips down grained cheeks.
Willow, or a wavering orchard goddess.
Port Angeles, Washington
Winner of Outsider Ink's Writing Contest #8
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