This selection, chosen by Guest Curator H.V. Cramond, is from & watch how easily the jaw sings of god by Ashley Cline, released by Glass Poetry Press in 2021.
the things we borrow
“So you just stepped out / Of the front of my house / And I’ll never see you again / I closed my eyes for a second / And when they opened / You weren’t there”
— Frightened Rabbit, Floating in the Forth
“I have fallen in the forest / Did you hear me?”
— Frightened Rabbit, The Loneliness and the Scream
you built a house in a field far from the cliffs,
but close to the river—
you collected the rain in barrels you placed beside the porch,
and tipped your lips to their open oak mouths on occasion. you asked
them from what rivers they came, or from which oceans they hailed.
you asked them whose lungs they filled and emptied of air, as you
dropped whole lemons and limes and apricots and peaches inside the
fresh water of their answers. you whispered poems to the fruit, as you
raised your brush to the barrels’ oak lips and dipped it beneath their
saltwater confessions—gentle like a sail boat caught in a bottle,
you painted the house dandelion yellow, and the shutters and door
in a mint julep green. you didn’t care what the neighbors thought,
you wanted to live inside of spring. you wanted to call a season of
permanent blooming home and you didn’t want your
growth to be mistaken for metaphor.
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