Through it by Ila Colley

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Photo by Jeremy Segrott

This is not throwing plates, how
you ask me. Too late for that.
This is a whisper dissection. This

is a beggar’s hand in my mouth.
This is the quiet I forget in, shy
hiss of the gas left on. Wish with 

this. This decanted antidote
isn’t fit for everyday use, you
with this inevitability, this

mimetic healing from behind
windows. This only on the road
minutes at a time, this falling

pose and these docile headlights
letting the water in a little,
this as you tell me. This world

you assembled. Your hand in me
that broke the surface, breaks,
these wars are worse than accidents.