Yes, I caught the wind
catching me—it pulled me
by the ear as if
it’d speak as soft and quick
as mice squeaking, sneaking
past some eaves.
Yes, my voice fell, and fresh
like glinting snow,
like wild game
in a wooded eld bowed cold
by some far off arrow.
Yes, I left the World—did lift
my arms an empty wide,
and even with my breath
(its livened breadth)
made actual hands
of my actual hands, made
eyes of my actual eyes.
catching me—it pulled me
by the ear as if
it’d speak as soft and quick
as mice squeaking, sneaking
past some eaves.
Yes, my voice fell, and fresh
like glinting snow,
like wild game
in a wooded eld bowed cold
by some far off arrow.
Yes, I left the World—did lift
my arms an empty wide,
and even with my breath
(its livened breadth)
made actual hands
of my actual hands, made
eyes of my actual eyes.
by C. LaSandra Cummings
C. LaSandra Cummings writes poems, fictions, and essays. Her recent work appears in SISTORIES, and is forthcoming in Obsidian and Sinister Wisdom. An MFA graduate of the University of Colorado at Boulder, she lives in her hometown, Orlando, Florida.
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