by S. Brackett Robertson
Don't flay my skin to bone, love thorn-cut red ribbons let fall like so many leaves it isn't winter yet and I need this flesh, this skin encasing bone ay, you have shed your skin, love, and still your wrinkled face shows through you have shed your leaf to stone, love but I am not like you.
S. Brackett Robertson is an undergraduate student of anthropology and museum studies. Her poetry has previously appeared in Mythic Delirium and Scheherazade's Bequest. No matter where she finds herself, she tends to be on the prowl for archaic objects and places. She enjoys reading, particularly stories, and going on walks through the woods or past strange architecture. Her favorite fruit is the mango, both fresh and dried.
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