it is winter again as we feel our way through
a bed of glass in the river
                         we’ve been here before
                         everything’s the same
                         still the morning
                         still the pieces of glass
              we pile in the image of a child and praise
in truth we can’t make anything happen between us
            winter began inside you
            no one knew
            but I knew


            *

I want to believe this will end
with the child coiled around your finger
                         with thousands watching and throwing roses at us
                         with lights and glitter in our hair
but we both know how it ends
we practice until we don’t need to tell our bodies how to do it
            the child with her glass head—
            her lips curled in my palm trying to say her name for her

                         will you hold her to the light
                         will you breathe a little pink into her
your hands on her throat looking for the song at the other end

not everything is a bright flute made of bone

            *

we tried shaking her out of us like a bee down our shirts
                         but what if the bee had been a wasp
            what if it died not because it stung
            but because it grew tired of stinging

milk eyed small lunged prophet in the mud
you wash the sand out of your hair
                         where the mushrooms outnumber the stars
we sit on the bank in the sun
and quietly roll clay between our legs
and its hardening is a form of meditation

winter begins with her hands detached from the branches

you knew
you always knew

Issue 7 Contents                                        NEXT: Water and Island by Jennifer Sperry                                                                                             Steinorth