|Nebraska Center for Writers|
We are undoing these wounds,|
undoing these forgivings stored
under the stairs.
Wait for the holdout, the smoke-laden
faces pushing against glass.
We see nothing for miles.
We donít remember the house burning
or study the flight patterns of birds.
I like you, creature, set at the level of little windows.
The house burning will be our new children,
little soft haired voice fountains.
We will be the mamma and we will be the papa.
We will remember this place
swollen, the wet look of brass.
Some shape our hands made.
OUR NEW WOLF HEADS WANDER
Your hollowed voice, a pendulum. A gunnysack full of
moth wings. We donít have mothers, but we still hide
things from them. Tether under our breathing ribs.
Paperly in our new skin. Mouths open. Mouths full of
moth dust. I would kill you just to remember you. And
the swinging in this room.
Hunger, or hillsides blooming under skin
under touch under tones, or flora ascending
across the horizon. A little collection of
white hairs and thin blue twists of
grass descending from cloudfields, or fauna
fantods under current under air. All
this is to say that we're too late; we watch
horizons collapse and hold nothing but ourselves
underwater, scribbling sea missives on soaked
parchment. Nerve endings bloom with anemone
bouquets. Our limbs rest on drawn-up
knees loose, not loosened. A mouthful of bees
in lampfire folds, unfolds, refolds back
into hillsides blooming under hunger.