Matthew F. Amati

Where Things Matt Writes Are

SLAP them flaps, and scrub them scabs. Boil them owls and scorch them weasels good. Howl at the moon and run away when it come after you. You’re a child of the winter wind and it use to beat you til you squealed. You gave birth, but you tossed the baby in the bio-waste bucket and raised the placenta to be a lawyer. You were so afraid of being struck by lightnin’ that the darknin’ got you instead. A seizure, a shadow, a twisted branch in the snow.

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