I brush away snow to watch the pulse of water
beneath ice. We’re allowed to name the stars
more than once. Look at the naked sky in January.
The light we’re blind to at midday travels toward us,
broken by a cone on an alder branch, only to become
shadow. My heart sits impatiently in the basket
of my ribs, reminding me that not long ago
the pierced dark showed ships at sea
a way home.
#7 This sound of children singing the sun up will shape every last Himalayan snowflake…
She rarely made us do it— we’d clear the table instead—so my sister and I…
Because one must be naked to get clean, my dad shrugs out of his pajama…
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