SONG OF THE BOG BODY TRAPPED IN AN HOURGLASS
- Jul 3
- 1 min read
By Sophie Daly-Atkinson
My chest cavity is torn in two as the moon
grinds her white chthonic thumb,
glutting on air thread through wooden lungs,
slipping over earth like a fat unseeing god.
I dream of wings peeling my back,
a soar that soaks up the sky,
cleaving blue with my two-pronged swords.
I think I am dying, or I am already Death,
my flesh a century of prayer, a cemetery of
dirt swallowed by the tide,
my body a bloodless dartboard for Time.