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  • Flesh and Dust

    "Where will you go," they ask her.
    "I will look outside," she said. The words are in the woods, wild and wreckless, between wide and narrow tree rings, beneath the arch of branches. Distances change and the limits of conception expand with the enormity of the world scaled to her footsteps. Words are in the woods defiling silence, moving across the landscape to puncture, to protect, like a sharp blade or bullet. In darkness and dim light, she doesn't have to be good, even if she's alone and even if she's lonely. She hears herself breathing, listening for the shattering glass of myths breaking. Between shadows and slant of light, in the too-full woods, she can imagine there's nothing to be afraid of. She dreams of fireflies under speckled midnight skies, of fooling fear and slicing inhibition, of losing control. In the woods, there's nothing to hold down; she comes undone, unwrapped of ambiguity, restored in revelation. She creates words in the woods, flesh and dust.