UPON 11 AM ALONE
the lilacs are jarring:
impossibly young flowers,
purple heads sliding through
the wind's jaw. bruises
addressed by low flying clouds.
it should be spring;
i am crawling on earthborn worms
like a new baby unaware of my limbs.
something is wrong this morning,
this racetrack of autumn rot,
and the sentences speed into minutes
without pause or consideration.
my fingertips, bone sirens, dance softly
over the keeling whiteout of my belly.
there is a brightness to my paperbag skull
more piercing than the knowledge of weddingbeds
and coffins; it is the knowledge of what is to come,
and what is to come after.
Sarah Catherine has never been published and is a glim nothing.