My teeth are asleep and kind. They bleach like limestone, crumble like slate. The old plates are merely lungs, long dormant, having breathed once, twice, long ago. My chest had lifted, my shoulder blades cracking together, pulled up and back. Volcanoes fell down my throat, swallowed into peace, their rumblings lost to other voices, the voices of ghosts who expose my fault lines with paths of asphalt and tar.

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Jennie Ziegler, a Pennsylvania native, received her MFA from the University of Arizona and currently lives and teaches in the Southeast. Her work has appeared in Luna Luna Magazine, Atlas and
Alice, and Gingerbread House Literary Magazine.

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