Dear was burned,
Here we are losing our balance differently now.
Our once field now fireweed’s fuchsia spikes.
Here is our shoulder that was a wing in the before.
Can you mourn what grows?
Flesh (breathed it in my throat
soft like a sword, wrote on my insides: amen)
Here the cypress trees stand only as tall as me (age eight)
Front page image by Wendy Cutler.