that our forest is inseverable,
fabric and boring
Autumn arms threadbare clothing
eager to be cut with scissors modeled by a swan
her job prospects are booming, humanity is cosmetic,
mascara will not cling to feathers
she is an artist in the gravest sense:
velvet roundtrips over the cemetery gate
sans filigree
commonly known as: without decorum
a yearling in my own practices, an apple head of blood
shivers from my thumb, my needle,
I was only trying out embroidery
on myself, fingers a lace web pattern
and when I don’t feel confident in every scrap of work, I produce
worthless, leafy doodads
our coin jars repurposed from espresso tins insufficient
our rent goes down and I’m fine,
hungover in the garden patch.
You take the photo.
W. C. Perry
W. C. Perry is a writer from southern Ohio pursuing a BFA in Creative Writing at Wright State University. Their works focus on loss, family, spirituality, and the midwestern landscape. Their work has appeared in Garden, Prometheus Dreaming, and Lupercalia Press’ VULCANALIA ‘21.