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By Bridget Wallace


By Elise Nelson

I step outside.
The air is clear, it clings to me
like a satin slip, sobering.
The spark of parking lot lights glows,
hazes over me.
Despite dripping haint blues, 
self haunts being.
Tell me:
who are you evoking
when lips speak, unleash tsunami
words like I love you
I’m hungry,
I don’t care,
all tidal, dental and salival,
inarticulate and unbridled
in invocation.
You need not speak the tongue
to know the meaning.
Flames fan up to lick you
semiotically, burn with
vocalic atrocity: ater, umbra.
I exists in slips of tongues,
in whispers and in screeches.
Hot breath gusts up sublime
in prayer, casts a halo ‘round your form.