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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