By Courtney DuChene
Exist as premonition. Only known
by yellow leaves, by shivers rustling west,
and petrified tombs the Cedars wreathed
when their marsh rippled, splitting open loam.
When continents plummeted through orphan
tsunami, lithe oceanic fingertips,
I gaped at canoes dangling, strange worship,
from pines I waterlogged. My voice turned arsine.
I tacitly redrew a nation built
on mire and rapture. Ashen, tectonic,
unknown by men. A volcanic
fire, sailor’s ship suspended at full tilt.
And when I drop, for there are no ifs, my
soft voice will murder the endless mountain sky.
