like the sharp point of her nose or
the way her softness fades into angles
as she loses her mind to the tide
pools of thick water placed
up to her lips to live, a bit longer
wading, waiting to swim, finally to be
free from this washed up shore
she leaves behind her outline, nothing more
her flaring nostrils burn in images
she lies down now but memory tricks
someone still left standing above me
I see her eyes open only when I dream
but they are not her eyes, another
amalgamation of god, father, sky,
all
wrapped up between her belly and the hurt
doe nursing its wounds out the window,
fawn following without question in tow
arien wolf lives and writes poetry in washington
their work is concerned with identification, politics
of care, and making space for what won’t resolve
they’ll begin an mfa program at uc irvine this fall
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
No comments:
Post a Comment