Jane – Rachel Small

Rachel Small is not a small person and can be found wandering the streets of Ottawa. She spends her time haunting bookstores and serving poorly made lattes to the general public, as well as writing things specifically to distress people. Check out @rahel_taller on Twitter, and also @AtticVoices for more of her antics.

By Rachel Small

I found a girl
not made of sugar
but rather orange pekoe,
dark and bitter amongst graveyard soil.

She had lain beneath rich blue sky,
like a mirage amongst scattered books and shoes.
She had been left with her neck near vanished,
a pair of pantyhose wrapped around her throat so tight.

I found a girl so dead
she looked not dead,
but rather a mannequin,
stretched out upon a stranger’s grave.

She’s got both a sister and a father
but also a murderer,
and her name circled in a phonebook.
She’s both dead and a victim.

I found a girl
stretched out with dirt beneath her nails,
eyes forced shut and hair knotted
and I thought she were plastic and manufactured.

She’s got a tragedy stamped across her face,
rotting away upon a stranger’s grave.
Her stomach bloats as she begins to vanish,
a slow trail to barebones.

I found a girl so violated
with DNA smeared across her body.
A puzzle and a code,
Strewn about beneath the hot sun.

She’s not my sister nor my daughter,
nor the victim of my hand.
She’s nothing to me but an existence dead.
Her name is Jane and I found her lying there.

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