This selection, chosen by Guest Curator Solstice Black, is from Through a Red Place by Rebecca Pelky, released by Perugia Press in 2021.
On a Wire
The trees bend backwards, break themselves bearing a foot of snow, power lines sagging in their wake. Northern trees muscle up or give up through each weighted winter, hunker down under blizzards. It’s the same for me. I thought I bore each downfall with grace, but nobody gave up their body like me. A joy’s worth of crows on a wire choruses, Nobody, nobody, nobody. And I am left echoing in their outro. But then the moon, swinging easily in the staff of skewed electric lines, sings to me in C-major, and I dance a different kind of giving up, her voice descending into notes for which we have no names—this one, the color of a crow just at dusk on the last day of the year, that one, my body, after it’s given in for the last time.
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