Linda Amos - Baylor University

a minute inside the wooden cage. of my rib-strapped chest. A piston, muscle-made-machine, my heart pounds out its purpose. as a rhythm inside my skin. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, pulsates back against fingertips. pressed to my thin-skinned wrist. Liquid percussion in downdrafts . of drumming, the real pulse . is in the pauses between beats, ................
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