Thousands of leaves scatter toward us,

New Year’s confetti.

Icicles—test tubes,

bruised apples—a baby’s beating heart.

A needle pokes in and out in and out

sewing your name.


This is the season in between seasons.


Our paddles cut through water,

reminds me of my mother’s porridge

thick, lumpy, never the same consistency.

Your fishing line jerks, the fish escapes.

Your spinner stuck to a tree branch.


We had banged on the rack of bones that

was the canoe’s chest.

Mice ran out,

tiny blind bodies clinging to their mother’s

nipples, naked in the presence of the Red-Tailed



This is the funnel of nature.


I’m swept up between The Valley,

her hips straddling me

the explosions of artillery

from the Gap sound.

I feel the contractions

before she gives birth.

The earth’s blood pools

beneath my feet.


by Sarah Grodzinski

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