Arm against her weight,
with a crack in her concrete jacket.
Just barely enough, she thinks,
as the sharp scream of the wind
seeps through her crevices,
and palettes of pale blue pour
down her spine
like a roar of silent thunder
the pulse of her pressing palms.
Amy Kislyakov is an undergraduate college student who is interested in inquiring into the nature of language, into its possibilities as well as its limitations, and the spaces between.