Rhea Cinna is a writer, film enthusiast and doctor. She loves big cities, museums, film festivals, animals in most non-reptilian incarnations and believes there’s no place like a moated chateau. She is a contributor for The Missing Slate. Her work has also appeared in Stone Highway Review, Rufous City Review, Crack the Spine and other publications.
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She speaks a dialect carved by wind burning Saharean
shores, breaking grain-waves, ash-melting a smothering
song; dirt beneath her feet, stars clinking
around her ankles, she shows me trenches dug out by camels
bearing silk, her shadowed eyes lower in an obligated lisp,
a wistful shawl waves goodbye in creases
I hide between. I have not told her anything yet,
not of my or her self, of distance and symbols inked
on skin, parchment, letter-fulls of the same desert, wide
enough not to be crossed in a day, of a dust trail that
keeps meandering, never finding home.