the summer coats her in her own sweat

clothes become a wetsuit filled with silicone lubricant

the air is supplanted by some odd mixture

of steam and fog and has a tactile quality

she draws her finger through it

as if fingerpainting a creation mythos

there are generations birthed

in the viscous ridges and valleys

of her index fingerprint

they groan with coming and going

she strings time along molecules

of water and salt that owns a musk

a lifetime of work drawing to a sludge

the invisible anchor to weeping willows

she exhales a slow lizard of smoke

and lets her eyes cut through

all the static, listening for the echoes

of all those children she deigned

to bring alive and release back into the aether


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