Mieke Leenders
Mnemosyne’s Mouth
I don't recognize any of the food on the counter. My mother points at a table at the center of the room, tells me to wait. I recognize bread. An abstract idea of bread without air. Wheat without breath. My mother speaks. I drink her voice until I am full. Hands, even smaller than mine, take the loaf, tear it apart. The sound of a moist rag.
Gulp
Stumble
Wheeze
Cackle
Crack
Gulp
Stumble
Wheeze
Cackle
Crack
Oizys’ Touch
Walls growl and gnash
as black strokes become violent bodies.
The fragrance is war.
as black strokes become violent bodies.
The fragrance is war.
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