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The Elbow, Daniel J. Flosi

Out by the lake there's a place where we stalk the flowers, between the thousand fingered shore and the loops of the bowline. We found the place called the elbow, the joint where two rivers become three rivers. A place of great economy. Limbs of ashen elm twist with hopvine and scrape down my cheek. We are drunk on the honey wounds of the woods. A hunger churns the black processing lines.

In the still woods creeps the economy of need. You hold my neck in the endless circle of cicada song. The lake churns and churns and churns me into the spit of flower dust, playing me against myself. The blood

from the empty hunger eats through barkbone. Bloodtide pumping, surging, bursting, pulls us back into the economy of the processing line. Burnt deer flesh dripping nectar. She makes me drink. The whiskey of the bent river drowns you like a soft shell.


Daniel J. Flosi sometimes thinks they are an apparition living in a half-acre coffin within the V of the Mississippi and Rock Rivers. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Prometheus Dreaming, eris & eros, The Closed Eye Open, The Good Life Review, Zero Readers, and Wild Roof Journal. Drop a line @muckermaffic.

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