CRYWOLF

CLARA PAIVA

 

The wet grass
touches me,
I howl.
A reminder
I could be
the pack,
but I offer
my body
open, I sit
sole in the
graveyard.
I was born
in late winter,
&, oddly,
not at night.
Every year
I watch the
mild cold
engrave its
last vows on
São Paulo’s
tree trunks
as my skin
celebrates
one step
closer to
perishing,
but it always
comes back,
wrestles
its way
through the
radiation.
Its claws
reach my
heat rashes
& I know
it is not
yet over.

 

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