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Grace Sanford

Tribunal of Light
I unwrap March from a bed.
I treat a month like a luminary, and,
like a luminary, March lets her hair down.
I blindfold March and see her twitch. See her
tremble and ask me to not stop.
I share my spit with March. I taste our
salience and salinity. Tremble with March in a
mirror then, luminary-like, turn and look at her.
March is in the bathroom thinking about me.
I am choosing recipes for an occasion.
The Deck
i tell the deck, spill

fill me, please, with
any phrase​

into the night
 
i bruise on
a secret
 
bum it, later,
 
black and 
blue, from my pocket
 
before everything
 

on the deck she
prays like she’s wading
 
 
into the night
 
she waits 
for a crow’s call to signal the day
 
a prayer
 
about this, she tells
me, thanks crows for
 
sounds crows make
 
when we fuck on
the deck the neighbors
 
see us
 
i feel like
glass
 
singing
 
a hand at
the mouth
 
the Neighbors Know
 
My Name
words 
change fucking
 
 
into the night
 

it leaves
the deck the same

Grace Sanford holds a BA in sociology from Wesleyan University. Grace lives in New York.
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