and a cold sun pressed
to my mouth. Blood season,
dark dreaming I am not
a penny heads-up on the
pavement, or a rabbit blending
into white mountains. I am
not seamless or clay in its purest
form, my minerals have existed
for years and have tumbled
down that mountain, through
windstorms and I live downstream
of a shinto shrine and curve along
the path of fault lines, where tremors
have freed me from ladders I climb.
Sometimes I forget I’m even climbing,
and I forget about the ladder,
and suddenly it’s just sky. Dear grievances,
my heart is cold and bright.
When I hear a knock on my door
I undo the hinges but not
the lock. I am living at the edge
of a sun season, and wool anticipates
the roughness of my skin. Dear season,
I’m not sure if this sweetness will stain
or destroy me.
AYA ELIZABETH is an artist, bookseller, and poet living in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has appeared in Typishly and The Write Launch, and will be in the forthcoming issues of Up The Staircase Quarterly and Habitat Magazine.