Poetry

It begins with the smallest of breaths:
a cough, a voice split into seven veins. We joke with the coolness of broader perspective, suavely side-eye our parents.

Curled in the center 

                       she is fixed

           to her  

                       atmosphere

                                  torn strips of silver

does it end, forgotten darling—
the earth
your rope
what it feels like to know?

My skeleton hides, teases, 

makes burlesque 

adjustments: peek-a-boo 

rib cage, scapula.

Smoke has made room for rains,
and I want to stave the yellowing
of leaves on my apple tree.
I want my persimmons to wait
just a bit more.
I want time to savor
what I knew and still forgot
was breathtaking.

I expect nothing of the other side,
if that’s what death is—some other

side of being. I’m inclined
to believe it’s mere cessation,

an absence of words, no breath.

Which branches are not worth twisting and saving? Which ones
should we burn?

Light pierces through the narrow window, all glitter and dust. We search
long hallways, find bead collections, notebooks,

their tiny keys. We turn a mountain trail, find traces of the animals
that tested us, hid from us.

by Adam Scheffler   Why does it hurt when I pee, my stomach hurt, my eye twitch, my throat hurt Why do I feel dizzy, bloated, empty, nauseous, weak, shaky, depressed I’m so frustrated with myself, with my husband, with my acne, with my life When will I finally die, get pregnant, find love, get …

startling silence—
I was handmade
from downed limbs

I rocked you in your mother’s lap
my wicker creaked with her song:
swing low sweet chariot—

The baby takes a bath on his birthday; charred & smiling through white teeth.
Everyone burned in the street eventually settles, [200 mg Zoloft]
in a kitchen filled with faces.