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Dead Woman's Hollow Road.

--Cumberland County, PA
 
 You watch the news to find out that lesbians don't wash away
after drinking dirt, that the dirt didn't absorb all the rain last
week, that there's everything to name and no voice to repair the
rainbow, that the history of queer was murdered in the Michaux State
Forest. I heard about the woman who ran from the echo of hate--one shot
at a time. I mean, I went to the grocery store, bought mushrooms
covered in dirt, rinsed their white heads, poured olive oil on them,
the news in the background. There's a storm coming, a flood
warning,
maybe a murderer on the loose. I cooked and swallowed dirt. Eleven
miles away a tree named Rebecca sank into the land.
I am on the other side of the rainbow in the dirt
that doesn't make the news: lesbians sprout like wild onions,
their root systems tangle with murder. In Pennsylvania, crushed bones
cut into the land and daughters collapse before they are auctioned off
every Sunday morning. This ritual is for sale in the church parking lot
where blessings smell like gunfire and fingers break the sound barrier
as they dig for life.
The dirt under the dead woman's fingernails: sacred.
The yeast in her throat: scooped out, melted down,
and served as communion.
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Author:Santalucia, Nicole
Publication:Atlanta Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2019
Words:260
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