Carrie Etter
The Letter
It scalded my hands, but I could not drop it. In fact, I’m holding it still. Or it became the burned skin, the measure of contact, where my fingers touched white flame. Notice the erasure in my prints, the breaks in the whorls. Which is to say that I am nearly the same, but ever after, I leave less of a trace.
Page(s) 97
magazine list
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- Rialto, The
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- Thumbscrew
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