From the Underbook #2

 
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)
 
angel.
 
Here the cypress trees stand only as tall as me (age eight)

Front page image by Wendy Cutler.

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