They think it’s like plucked barge strings heaving gorges, though sound lands nowhere. Blood, poking through poultry leather. All that is left is calyx to burn in the sun and take its lazy drift down the Styx, or Milky Way. About Timothy TarkellyHe has an MA in Theatre (Drama Therapy) from Kansas State University. His poems have been featured by Whisper and the Roar, Paragon Journal, Lycan Valley Press, Aphelion, Poets & War, and Fourth & Sycamore. He works for a non-profit that serves survivors of domestic and sexual violence. Social media links: https://twitter.com/TimothyTarkelly To read more check out Cauldron Anthology's Issue 3.
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