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Inedible

by: Valentina Cano

A harvest of words
has brought us here.
Over-ripe,
their skins fizzing with scabs
that ooze,
the words swamp the air around us.
Our scythes, perched like birds
on our shoulders
tremble at the task ahead,
at the slaughter.
With a last look back
at our moments of tilling,
we trench in,
pulling our memories behind us,
our words,
our festering fruits,
before us.