The Abacus

Breach the interrupted span
come down, shaken...on guard.
A number not unlike a name
is written on the bedframe-

counting each quill wilting
from the shoulder's ridge.

Higher up the ceiling
a flaw- a moth painted
into the flat faux universe
that the landlord built

a reminder: your wings
will not secure escape.

In the evening when
vision surpasses vision
quiet, crisp, clear as
Medusa's face; fixes stars

in their tracks, bends back
light in unatural horror;

the neighbor upstairs
pounding nails into walls
as if to barricade night
outside in its cage-

a reminder of counting
the stages of dying,

each withering quill,
every wasted breath
or nail. You lie still,
memorize the numbers

tatooed on the wood...
the score of feathers



Nobius said...

Another master piece.

Anonymous said...

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Rachel Phillips said...

Thank you so much I appreciate this!