Fault Lines

By: Sarah Perret-Goluboff

Somedays, the old grief flints like
magma, freshly blazen.
Splitting through sinew, snapping
veins of seam-sealed rock
it presses coaled fingers
through scars long settled.

I used to curse my tinder
body for catching flame again,
for alighting anew, cleaving
to smoke, when
I have worked so hard
to lithify.

Now, when the pain comes,
purpling and tough, I hold it —
even as my eyes water over,
even as the dust rises in my
quartz-crammed throat,
I stare.

And in the sight I know —
here is another difficult
and beautiful thing
I am.


Sarah Perret-Goluboff (she/her) is a Chicago-based writer. Her stories can be found in The Rumpus, Bridge Eight Press, Points In Case, and Thirty West Publishing, among other outlets. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Sonder Press’ Best Small Fictions Anthology.

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