she/her
treating this like my second twitter account
i. the nagpur orange pluck the mottled sun drooping low from overgrown orchards and shed his rind, a waxed riddle of oedipal green
By Sophia Pandit3 years ago in Poets
Head splitting like asphalt bone under jackhammers, I-95 broaches me the March usual: birches with capillary branches gone rust, agoraphobic lanes,
there. it’s settled. She speaks to me in a figurative tongue-- eluding to most, alluding for all. a deity rather coy, beady-eyed,