On blue bed linens she sits, hair pulled
tight to her skull in the cave of illusion,
where a tilted square of light washes
the gray wall, angles honed sharp
enough to slice pale flesh. Outside
a window so large her body could tumble
through, she sees blue sky above a smear
of cloud. A factory looms like a sun-baked
prison, where inmates seethe and sweat
in a yard without shade. Her mind has
become a space devoid of trees, only small
rocks and scrub grass, and a few tiny buds
of clover, white and naked to the glare of day.
by Steve Klepetar
Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared widely, and several of his poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press). Email him at email@example.com.
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