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Post Road Magazine #32

Iphigenia, Ascending

Baily Spencer

Go ahead:
bring a knife to my neck
that the winds might turn.
How I long for the altar,
the clean gleam of blade.
I was born strong
but now I am not. My limbs
are twisted roots: anemic
carrots, jaundiced beets.
Aching cervine spine.
Boil until the difference
between animal and vegetable
has cooked off. All things
eventually weaken, go soft
and bendable. Skin parts,
slopes slowly into a wound.
This is the body that will
launch showering arrows,
upset the grave-still seas.

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