Inside the House push her off the tractor, leave much. A tractor rolled over born, not a scratch. She told me around a blue-eyed Jesus. me of iniquity. Scratched nothing is left. Blessed, she a holocaust. Gravity He stayed in the fields the day Two fingers near his heart, cut A limb removed and left on room is a backside slipping the house with a wooden bench, with a concave, sunken name a sloping downward curls me a bed, ravines flood across torn flesh to cover a face weather and warning.
Lucy Jilka’s work has appeared in Corroboree, The Cincinnati Poet's Collective, American Voice, WordWrights, So To Speak, 580 Split, kill author and Eclectica. She holds an MFA in Poetry from George Mason University and lives and works in Washington, D.C.
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