The First Taste of Poison at Dawn
The apple bleed through the desperation
of her grip. Where
was her head? Beneath a forested bed,
two blackened beans are planted:
one to grow; one to sew. The eyes
of misdirection are in her favor.
A bargain (and a needle's tip) is struck . . .
One final thought rises with the sun
to bless the thorns blooming through her palms:
is it more than the proffered sleep
[g]ripping the edges of her mind?
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