March 14, 2017
A poem from the Spring 2017 issue.
Beneath the knotted rows of cane
that hid me, thrummed knuckle-red,
a belting out—ribs, wrist, my gone warble
knocked soundless, torched wails uprooting:
What a song to be bosomed with.
that hid me, thrummed knuckle-red,
a belting out—ribs, wrist, my gone warble
knocked soundless, torched wails uprooting:
What a song to be bosomed with.
