arms stretch out across the ground, listen
root fleshless in the settled earth of
clutching at flowers left behind by children who see
him again and again in the worse memories.
pulls himself up through six feet of soft earth, fingers glisten
tunneling persistently to reach Above
a song of summer night, he
at air in the hot summer night, surprised his lungs still work.
pick stone angels out against the starlight, fists and
throb vainly, lulling perfume, thoughts of love
at whats left of the heart of the thing bent on one rotting
in the shadows, not really alive.
Days poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have most recently
appeared in Canadian Woman Studies, Skyway News,
and Ruah. She currently works as a reporter and a writing
instructor in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and lives with her two children