Stacy Nigliazzo
Quietly, they concede,
leaving pennies
at your feet.
Clove oil at your bedside.
A constellation of symbols
etched
across the grease board
like cave scrawl.
In your palm, a withered
blade
of split stone. Fluted reeds
like hollow wings in flight.
Eyes closed, lips
unparted,
I collect you like clover
in the green fleck of my eye—
like bone chips at the altar.
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