The thicket of mind spreads
for wild reaps wild. The moon casting
light from other—how embrace
lends to give. See here, the glow
enters the pupils and now we are triune.
Another pedal unfurls in the thicket. Wild
sow. Wild reap. In the blink, we absorb
the night hungry and unfaithful. Breeze
feathers us. We lull in cricket wings, pastures
in other skulls, where the cool comes from.
Echo of leaf chatter does not dream
of us. Still not—
your chatter bones, your chatter
pumps of veins. Only in rhythms
do we know the crooks, bedded
earth—a stream
we trace an ear lobe, longing
for drum: rabbit hole, badger scent,
woodpecker’s knot: tendril of brain
we carve out of. Self has never been
a singular thing to brand our own. |
Felicia Zamora is the author of the chapbook Moby-Dick Made Me Do It (2011 Flat Cap Publishing). Her published works may be found or forthcoming in Bellevue Literary Review, Crazyhorse, ellipsis…literature and art, Poetrybay, Puerto del Sol, The Carolina Quarterly, The Laurel Review, The Journal, The Normal School, The Pinch Journal, Witness Magazine, and others. She is an associate poetry editor for the Colorado Review and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Colorado State University.
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