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Volume 12.2

Ashley Vogel

Plucking the Last Petal

this is the end of the poem. it is not
off the tip of my brain to gift to you;     parting.
the skull feels lonely in its delirium weight,
a vortex of nulled place. missing meat would not
recognize its own absence, nor the well of grief
that grows in its grief-shaped well. do you see this 
razor. serrated memories. it drips honey red behind. it’s as if
this void  space was meant to be youless: a casting
meant for no one, and there’s no answer if you call for it.

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