Dystrophy (KC): A poem

Dystrophy (KC)

this she said from the other side
of the room full of afternoon
sun, her hand over
her eyes like a makeshift visor—as if
morning still burned
the windows off
the eastern-facing wall


imagine if the dawn
were always breaking
behind someone or something,
and what you saw from the front
was the thing, undoubtedly
the thing, but brimming,
uncontainable; there’d be a glow,
    an aura, so to speak—
a halo
blurring where the body ends”

her glass not where
she thought it was
she reached, ultimately,
for nothing

“it’s hard to think of
as holy”

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