Boundaries 1920 1280 James Ducat

Cones and yellow tape and spindles of chicken wire;
stone-stack lines across a Northeast forest;
stockade and picket plastic shaped to look like lattice;
barrels and sandbags; minefields and doorbells;
the distance across or through salt and ache.
Some strings detached. A tickle gone bad.
Handhold between rock and water,
edges of each only matter
if they meet. Pangaea pulled apart, starting
space as a means of self-protection.
The moment ecstasy collides with trauma:
a fibrous twitch; a gnaw at sinew;
anger that shards reason, wants more broken things,
even reason’s availability, knocking, calling out,
begging loud enough for the neighbors to hear,
punch, knife, the slim threads between a lung and ribcage
released: unblurred like tide from shore.

Header photograph © Karyna Aslanova.

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