i.Hummingbird at rest.
ii.A letter in the post, rain-damp, belated.
iii.You no longer read the newspaper.
iv.Child touching two fingers to the keys of an upright,
the felted breath of dissonance.
v.Thunder’s approaching bass, trebled against glass.
vi.You inhale a cold muddle of clouds. Frost
glazes your heart, your gut.
ix.You could speak forever about nothing at all.
x.Crow wings a wind shear—
the ice forest creaks and fractures
into ten thousand tiny knives.
xi.You pluck the bloody shards—
from your scalp, your hands, the hollows
beneath your breasts—for the rest of your life.
xii.You bless them all.
Copyright © Marie Gauthier
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.