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Uncloud by Allissa Sandefur

Through the cloud-water, you look at me

as if you’re thinking of asking me

to marry you again.

You, the grand

phantom of my dreams:

who dragged me into the cellar

and left the door unlocked.

Once, there was a convenient rose.

Now, there are eight pots of boiling water in the tub:

My own shrink-wrapped baptism

in a midcentury industrial

military complex.

But the rose is mine,

regardless of who else sought to crush

its petals. As are the eight pots,

my name stamped onto their sides.

Once owned by none.

I cradle my head beneath the surface

and when I rise,

I find that I am rinsed clean.


Allissa Sandefur is an English graduate student, poet, and editor of the annual journal Feminist Spaces. Her work has been featured in The Blackwater Review, The Troubadour, and Harness magazine. When she is not writing or writhing, she is reading books and poetry, watching art, or fixating on a puzzle of some kind. She believes that all good literature tells the truth-even if it is inherently false. You can find her on Instagram @allissa_writes.


Rise Without You - WARDEN


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