
The gods insisted: a change of scenery.
Through the tilted sky, through the slow
waves, I slept. And suddenly, my mother
and I again on that strand: how she gathered
me in, how gently she wet my mouth,
as mothers do, when her head
exploded into a cherry cloud of ichor
that tasted exactly like milk.
from “Pegasus"
Lammergeier, Issue 9