CAROL CASEY
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UNRAVELLING
If I were to unravel the twisted tapestry of what became of Us that hangs, haunting in some dusty attic of my brain, or lodges, rotting, in some mouldy crevice of my colon (it moves around). If I were to take it out into sunlight, pick at the threads, pull one out, let it bleed, let its black caustic blood, eat holes in sensibility until the howl is out, whizzing headless, banging on trees, till its pulverized pulp turns compost, feeds butterflies. Then another thread, and another until the fabric is so threadbare that the remnants are a movie
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Volume 17 • 2022
