Sarah Escue

 

Through the limbs of an ash
tree, ash filters, reminds me
of the nights we watched the storm
from the front door,
your cigarette smoke
blown through the screen.

Tonight, the mutt’s holler rolls
over the hills like a tongue
over unbrushed teeth.

A wolf spider spins a gossamer
hammock, carries her young
on her back, eats them.

The moon un-
hinges from its socket—.

Still, your silhouette shrinks
in the sky-stone’s sheen.

Still, the petals of the crocus close,
unable to wake ‘til morning.

*Originally published in So To Speak in 2016.

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