Encounter I like how I grow thin as I grow old, as if age would reduce me to something elemental. I like how my face sculpts a clean line, caving in, how, hair by hair, my head goes blank as salt, heavy stone of memorys freight, seeking balance by becoming white. I grow more tender towards myself, take time to loaf, to let things set; I awake, lie still awhile, take account of pulse and limb. Rising this morning, I went to the window, where the sun slipped higher, fluidly, to fuse the dawn. Squinting in the ramp of light, it took a moment before I saw my reflection, face fresh from slumber, last scrap of darkness cleaving in my cheeks.
Sarah Sloat
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