portion of the artwork for Amy Sprague's poetry

Amy Sprague

This body’s breath

caught sharp and held

I hold it and like water

it escapes my fingers and spills

over my toes

when I am thirsty


asking too much from my body

when I am not enough


I give it tea and fruit and poisons

I exhale the fumes of the vices

herbal or smoky and fine

licking at these wet fingers

that let a pen scratch

let a word be plucked

from a curl of steam


this body’s breath

will learn it can’t hold what is borrowed

and maybe then stop

cupping and drinking

hold and take nothing

it’s enough just to breathe


let the vices unthread from the seams

of the spine into origami wings

taking flight in paper vees

and leave me in the water


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 44 | Fall 2014