When you beckoned me
through the looking glass, I saw your tornadoed world.
Debris orbiting you. I have since been nursing dreams
as a kangaroo, feet springing a thousand miles
in a hop. Sometimes, a tern – wide wings
spanning this flyway, birdsong
medicine to your wound. But
my favorite is where I am a bookmark
between the pages you inhabit. I watch you
relish the words; hide them
in your belly. Their light flickering
in your basset hound eyes,
scraping away your grief.
This piece was first published on Barely South Review’s Spring/Summer 2023 Volume 14.2.
