She’s a shrinking silhouette.
The cut-away dark around her burns.
More work than sleep than fear than failing and finally
(if lucky) the taste of iron and ceasefire.
Give her a stone a stirrup a pocket of patches.
How handy. How sweet.
The drunkening cup touches her lip—too late
to rope the severing dark—too late.
Photo by Sara Rolin on Unsplash
