Rappahannock Review | Sara Moore
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Reborn in the Body as Anne Askew

I don’t want to have to say again
what I mean by holiness. There is a brick
falling out of the side of your house,
I’m sure it will all fall apart before you
do something to fix it. God
damn this knocking on the inside of my rib-
cage. God damn the smell
of gunpowder. You know I am vile,
I’m ash. If I could speak a piece of bread,
and you’d eat it, it would be
a finger inside you sketching its
only wish on the lining of your stomach,
sowing.

I don’t want there to be another
word or name for this quiet
in me. I want to blow my words
into a bubble, to feed them to you,
and then, to watch you pass them
as the land rejects a stone, slowly. Let
it tear you apart. And even then,
I will keep myself as I am now, and I will
say nothing has happened, I believe
you are making this up. You are,
actually—you are.

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