Natalie Baker

skeletons in the soil bend with the weight of
slime-molten streets glazed with rain. i am
the fault line fracturing the pavement

to reveal the ragged soul of the earth,
the writhing pale grimace of rust and rock rearing
its milk-blind head through the crust.

the trembling in your stomach is the
epicenter from which i grow. i am the ripple of brick as if water,
pulsing through blood and asphalt, mortar,

pulling dust-cracked buildings from their roots into
sinkholes wide gaped to the darkness of soil
black like the inside back of your skull.

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