issue no. 5 | fall 2021
Whitewater
Tatiana Clark
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My body is a cage for
ghosts, and I’ve lost count of all the summers they’ve left me raw. This is how the summoning begins—in the dark hours, baring flesh to rapids, knee-deep and hungry, indulged in the exorcism. The moon crowns the night, howling blood-rage and crow feet. White light mirrors whitewater. There is salt on my tongue, in my lungs-- all the places I’ve been softened by need or wanted to be. This burning is familiar. What is it they say about insanity? I give myself to tumults masked as daydreams folklore and wild things and I think, Maybe this time it’ll be different. I dip my feet in the shallows, only to crash against the rocks cleansing turned feral body as tithe…. And in the rushing there is nothing to do but let the flood unfurl the pieces. A sea of limbs, picked apart by unbecomings— When the morning crescents the horizon, I find assurance after effervescing waters, in the stillness: bone snapped to bone, ligaments seamed with hauntings and I choke them back I try but they’re hungry. |
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Tatiana Clark is a writer and moon enthusiast. She studies English/Creative Writing at the University of South Florida. She is the current Managing Editor for Thread Magazine, her school's undergraduate literary and arts journal. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Trouvaille Review, The Shore, Hecate Mag, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @tatiianaclark.
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