Rebecca Seiferle

Issue #
September 27, 2015


. . .again, the wind, great gusts of it, the palms bending top-heavy
to the side and the chimes playing 57 octaves

in the chinaberry tree. A musician’s

even in sheer gusts, it remains melodic,
when the sky is being tossed back and forth again

in restless hands,
carrying rain bits of leaves, the gloves go flying

off the gardening table, empty containers
down the street, stirred

and stirring, the wind

again the doors

of karma. What does it mean…
probably nothing,

some god is angry, someone
turns in her bed to the body of hope,

and you, sitting
in the gusts of yourself, your hair caught

after the frozen hours of grief, the numbness
of language in the body, are happy

just to feel something

not caring where it’s
going. . .

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