shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Hilary Biehl

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The Unaccepted

Her eyes have dried up, watching for a chariot,
raven or raincloud to demonstrate it's not all
nonsense, this message she keeps repeating though well-
wishing relatives suggest that she vary it.
The words taste sweet, but in her stomach they become
an itch, an urge to admit the defeat that lurks
in each bite, each mite of digested dust. Rebel,
says the heat. The planet's grown too small, mountain peaks
scarce and accessible to satellite. She finds some
foreigners to warn, but without fail each one speaks
English. Everywhere's home, or close enough to call
it home. Everyone knows she'll do no mighty works.