Inhale
by Erin Dellinger
art by Antonio Guerrero
She scanned the room and screamed what could possibly be my purpose
here tossing quartz against upturned noses and whittling out
the hush of a night spent alone in the forest. My
words were
my sacrum
my heart is
the engine.
Don't suffer you are
the Silkworm's spoiling labor that
the sun holds on to, remitting
the hard-spun night for eventually coming.
I'm all full of breath in the third eye of storm as it
wraps me 'round in panting sheets with the placid soles
of out-turned feet standing on the everythingness
of no thing.
I inhale morning.