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I carried one grief while courting


Because the moon pulled in

a tide of early dirt—

Because I could not bury both

my mother and a child

Because the living

child wanted to go to that place, mama—

With the beautiful stones, where people leave

flowers and presents

And now we are up each night with her sleepless

fear of falling

into those dark holes.

Because the dirt was too—

And my hands were—.

I’m throwing red thread over my shoulders,

salting my grievances.

Listen, in the woods

we are banished from—

the owls are giving back the bones

of the ones—if they lived

we might have loved.

from Little Envelope of Earth ConditionsFind more by Cori A. Winrock at the library

Copyright © 2020 Cori A. Winrock
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.

Published in Cori A. Winrock 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.

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