Poetry by Cecilia Austin

Her Ailment  

days apologize for asphyxiating silences
borne from pain, bore data 
plots like constellations 
or vultures circling above, waiting 
for those roots to grow
into that fine network of fibers and vessels
as intricate as bodies of research one reads
for love of the other, skimmed
if not.

and evenings fold her lungs 
revealing seams of a quiet ache
like loneliness 
 
no one understands, no one wants

to understand.
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