Sara Lupita Olivares

it is your privilege, speaking fragmented

                                                  I was already there, my toes pressed into the mossy earth

in sight, the apparition contradicts its context

                                                                   when saying, there is not a dispute

tourmaline clouds, the animals in stasis begin to disperse

                           each account requires a self-reflexivity: hands upward, face averted to speak

it is not your desperation meant in the silence but a sharp edge — the walls gone cold

               worry dictated the animals, the light dimming over the grass, but to love its absence

                                        a scenario chosen over the unknown


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