By Derek Harmening
A groundhog stone, an abstracted misstep, a weightlessness, a glimpse of dappled blue.
Margot extends a palm. The earth leaps up to greet it.
A shrieking scaphoid, a fractured root system, a nauseating Tilt-a-Whirl. A filigree of settling dust. Quiet.
Margot wakens. Her wrist is a baby bird. The trailhead yawns.
A darkening, a chill. A caterwauling of coyotes. A fear as pure as childbirth.
Margot prophesies: a party of rangers, flashlights aloft, casting its net of crosshatched beams. A porcelain body, rigor-tinged, fodder for scavengers. Hers.
Margot yearns for girlhood: bomb pops, chlorine, sulfur-clouded Julys.
Margot prays. Margot crawls.
Margot—
Really like your use of repetition in the last few lines, Derek. Produces a greater overall impact.
Very nice work!