by Sara Aultman

You left the keys to my apartment next to
that spinal clementine rind, so

twisted in its amputated waltz by
fingers of someone else’s hunger and

abandoned the moment this
sharp citrus bit pink beneath the nail white, a

perfect spiral of the same glowing that
sunsets wore, but peeled thin—to acidic whispers.

Sara Aultman is a Seattle-based poet of liminal things whose work has been featured in The Fiery Scribe Review, Fahmidan Journal, Olney Magazine, HAD, as well as in the anthologies Black Stone / White Stone (Making the Machines that Destroy Us) and HELL IS REAL: A Midwest Gothic Anthology. She can be found on Twitter @TheSaraAult.