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.