| This Edition's Poetry |
Low Tide
Like a flick knife hidden
then pulled from your boot
you speak those words so glittering
and sharp, I am left here bleeding
slowly dying at your feet.
Silently I pray for mercy
but there will be no angel
come to stain her feathers red
for me, and no demon sent to serve
could hold its face to yours.
This is a private heaven
and hell.
by Pearl Nelson
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