blink out and I can't see her. When
on again I am extinguished. The sun rises into
I step out my door and stamp my feet.
Tomorrow it will
snow. One flake will catch the wind and cross
to melt in Maiduguri.
after it has fallen through the black tupelos
and possumhaw, after it has been steeped in the
and bladderwort, after it sinks into our cypress
Like what Miss Margaret once said about her
Or the low croak of the Great Egret in the
which equates, in one sense,
to dimming shadows moving at a sluggish pace
beneath the water's surface. Which is why Miss
imagines each mangled voice as unremarkable.
We are the broken vessels.
We are the cottonmouth asleep beside the
"They are mercy's parasites," she said once
stood beneath the Spanish moss.