ISSUE TWELVE | SPRING 2019
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
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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