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The Second Time I Cradled the Dead -- poetry by Amanda Kay

the car is just scrap metal by the bend

in the highway, where rock meets rock

formation. how a raven first taught us that

a skull is a placeholder for something

fleshed, smeared against the windshield.

look, at the endless sky and each ending

it holds. after all, the impact resonates

like the clinking of champagne flutes after

the dinner party, that unreachable tinkle

of magic, like dying. again, that lonely

stretch of road, sprawled like the football field

punctuated with lawn chairs, tucked so close

that our elbows brush with the wind. where

our bodies tumble, like cargo ships on rough waters.

what baggage do we carry from the morning?

the mourners are the true ghosts here. left

cloaked for reverence, cuddling bodies for heat.

so say sorry. say it was only an accident, each

death we give up in return for a remembrance of

constants. it is the second time. again, I am looking

for where the ground blushes, angry crimson

like the lines trailing down your chest, every

apology hinged on your lips. then spit, the blood

turning the water into its own, something else to spill.


Amanda Kay is a sixteen-year-old, Asian-American writer from the Bay Area. Her work has been published in the Roadrunner Review, Kissing Dynamite, and elsewhere. In her free time, she enjoys drinking caffeinated beverages and walking sandy beaches. She also hopes you have a great day.

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