There are human statues in the woods in baby powdered bodies. The woman opens her eyes: two men fighting with swords. We’re sharing popcorn, watching the soundless night clash like a black and white macabre. Her moon painted braid is cracking and flaking. Or is it dust from the high beams? We’re bored, so she takes the sword to cut off her own clay head
where rubies fall from the inside,
like bees from their hive or
my great grandmother’s glass candies
Annalise Mabe is a writer from Tampa, Florida. She is completing her MFA at the University of South Florida where she writes nonfiction, poetry, and comics. Her work has appeared in Brevity, The Offing, The Rumpus, Booth, Word Riot, Hobart, and was nominated by The Boiler for a 2016 Pushcart Prize. She reads creative nonfiction for Sweet: A Literary Confection and teaches composition and creative writing at USF.
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