death’s length is fingers-to-tweezers, the florescent illumination of a child’s
breath, and the skull of a mole, broken at the brow: was it a necessity that
curled out from you as the moon cycled at the wing-tips? paleontology
wrung from the sweat glands of dryads? when I lean towards the first
option, I move the remaining bones into a gallant exhibition of anatomy
— oh goodness
my little hands hold the wheat at the end of every life
Chelsea Eckert will be attending UNC Greensboro for her MFA in creative writing in the fall of 2015. Her fiction and poetry, both literary and genre, have appeared or will appear in over twenty print and online venues. Stalk her like a hungry catamount at http://chelseaeckert.me.