The Cresset
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Windsock
Jae Newman (bio)

It starts inside the chest. Hiss
zipping from deep in one’s lungs
in search of a way out. Lost

for years in a nylon shell,
mine is the heart who believed
in love as both particle and wave,

who, upon seeing a woman of
a certain age always stood still,
assumed she was my mother.

A silent witness, want never
denies darkness and when
the soul constricts on what it targets,

you have to break its spine,
slap its coil against a tree
until fermented prayers release

snarling in the cool of the grass,
orange shed thrashing
until all ribs are broken.

Jae Newman

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