Aug 26, 2014

It was the Nightingale and not the Lark

Written by Sophie Klahr

Read by Trista Edwards

His absence makes me out of mind. Out, heart—fucked limb.
There’s no hole I haven’t licked

or liked or longed for of his. Unplug, he says, meaning our affair
and what it should do, how the thread

should shudder out. I shrug. Absence: the fondness,
the foundering. A choke of fickle light.