Skip to content →

Notes from the Wilderness

Shh is the one sound

allowed into the vacuum-

sealed laboratory because

this is what a door says

when it is opened or closed.

We pinch the mist

where it branches.

We seed cloud forests

on the banks of cloud seas.

Beneath a blanket of moon,

waist-high, elbow-deep—

this is our only method.

We measure by eye,

eyes shut, until we hear a cry.

We are unkissed for years

by the sun. Colors pool

and pass through us.

When we are nearly translucent.

When we can no longer see

our milk-white hands.

Then the real work begins.

from Little StrangerFind it in the library

Copyright © 2013 Lisa Olstein
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Lisa Olstein Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.