The words come barreling out of a book, slightly round in shape, yet sharp and angled at the flutter of fingertips.
A quick drip of “and”s, then a torrent of “dust”s tumble into my hand. So I lay their broken bones, like a wrong symphony, flat on my palm.
They appear crisp-skinned with veins of toasted brown. A concerted sigh. I gather them into a pile of alphabet grief.
Copyright © 2015 by Lana Bella
