Jennifer Foerster

Issue #
January 31, 2017

Canyon’s Gate

In the mountains, by a stream
we crushed your bones

with a mortar and pestle
we pounded and pounded.

Thistle and peonies, Cherokee roses
turned their moonstruck faces down.

Bears had gathered at the cliff,
headlights bristling their backs.

Listen, I asked them.
But no one could answer

how you hunt me from the edge
of the familiar.

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