It didn’t come as a bird.
It didn’t come through the window.
Not a herald. Not the open book.
I walked through a field of sex
and death. My hand grazing
cup and stamen. I dove
into the face of a lily. So magnified
I didn’t recognize it. Only then
could I see the thing itself,
without preconception.
The women didn’t speak
about it. I was unprepared.
I didn’t know the difference
between induced and inducted.
The firmament through a pelvis
was just sky through an animal,
until I leaned my candid body close,
until it was my body sieving light.
by Brittany Deininger
Brittany Deininger received an MFA in poetry from Sarah Lawrence College and an MA in theology from The Seattle School of Theology and Psychology. Her work has appeared in On Being, Eco Theo Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Vita Poetica, and elsewhere. She lives in New York.
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