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Ash Durrance


after Catherine Pond


You, wandering man, split my chest each day

as rain does above a field of burning daffodils.

And when I woke, red-winged blackbirds.


Our beginning a wound of heart, a pomegranate

smacked with a bat, its bowl of bright rubies


spilling from me to you.


After us, I was a violet sky     black with those birds

again. Each one a form of self, destruction, & ember.


If I am the architect, consider my spine rolled,

a blueprint tied. Its mess of white lines a spindling


of almost-skeleton. My body still learning how little

connected, or felt deserved. Like a house betrayed


by the night, the unseen love of its one basement

light as the yard fills with breadcrumbs.


Now, each luscious dawn is ignited by the weight

of light being pulled underground. Each of my pupils


a round, saturated planet that whistles all the reasons

to remain:


Quick ankles in dandelions. Talking of sex,

or the orange flood of daffodils. All of it occasional—

a jolt of pink lightning down to the bone. Only once

it’s gone do you see the X on your wrist. A cross

of wandering, of found.


Ash Durrance is a first-year MFA candidate in poetry at Southern Illinois University, where she received the Peck Fellowship upon her acceptance into the program. She holds an MA in English and Creative Writing from Auburn University. She was born and raised in Orlando, Florida.


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