Greta Wrolstad

SIPHON & THRUSH

Arisen from the rich soil, arisen

as a rose. You arose: resplendent,

vine-tangled, nearly able to hold,

your eyes the color of sage, calling

for me in the room full of floating

dust, bits of sunlight given substance

in the nether-air. My memory of you

must be muddled—full hours enthralled

on the latchhook-rug, content

on the callus rug, careful, colored

by an incessant ending. There are

strands on the floor that are nothing

but voice. They are sticking to me.

They are silvery.

WAIST

Remnants of flagellum flung

from the brine-bath, cover

your nexus cover your armory

batten the cinches you are

disrobed. You are discovered.

Veiled by a new valence risen

over the valley floor. Wherever

you are seen you become

smaller, paler with ardor.

MOOR

then nothing, more present.

If I traveled west, I would reach

Arbutus, the brothering

tree, shedding and twined, holding

to the two-years-ago river

that brothers me. Absentia. This

desert is a land of silhouettes. Rice-

papered lamps color the air, float

in the liquid kitchen where faces are lit

from outside, a tap-drop suspends

above the bone-white sink, my hand

shadows these words: see it.

ASPEN

Prisms feathering the branches. Branches feathering–

The white hill. Lacework of blood in my lungs.

Hidden, my voice swallowed by snow. Have I

A course? Perhaps I have fallen through. Let someone

Discover me. Let me be carried from this cold radiance

To feel at least one more human hand. Are you not

Kind governance? I am tissue at base. Would that I

Be as whole as you would have me.