THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW 75 Cogito, ergo sum— I think; therefore, I am an enigma. Bequeathing my puzzle to you, I ask that you not disrupt my edging. I snap the frame of me together with stiff thumbs but scramble my inner shards in a heap. As Hera, I throw them like stones at Hermes’ feet— your feet—to decide his fate. I bury you, for you don’t pick up my splinters but pluck them from your soles. Against your calloused ankle, I lay un-pieced. Listen. Listen to me. I’ve spun poems in blood. I wanted to list them with lowercase letters, like moderns do, but understatement has begun stagnating me. Can we spell every sentence aloud? Will you prove what you feel? But philosophy bores you. Later, then, will you scrape upon my echo in words of pain, of gilded glory, in paradise lost and feeble regaining? In the reading, I’ll appear like pages, tear-crusted and crumbling at your scavenging touch. Descartes Heart Meghan Wells
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