The Grim

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A necrotized

claw has sprouted from the

neck of my favorite lace gown.

At first, it was a pool

of strawberry syrup

as bright and red

as a freshly skinned knee–

And then,

under the hanging tangerine fog of a Sunday afternoon,

it melted upward

into a

nagging,

sickled flower

of bloodless quiet

anticipating its reflection

in me.

“The Grim” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Artwork by Sarah Cruce

http://www.society6.com/sarahcruce

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