Savannah Keith, Poetry Editor

There was I,

Metal coiled about your hands,

An oxidized curl, golden,

Golden like Heaven and

Golden like you.


There was I,

A hand-stitched veil

A mechanism of boundary

A feather weight failure

Like plans,

Fallen through.


There was I,

I, sprigs of sage

On fire for the sake

Of a war, internal


In lilacs that imbue.


There was I

Ricocheting lines to the walls

You—tin paper frail

Like the pinwheels of youth

Bruised violet blue.


I, myself

An olden play of Witches

And on my lips,

The craft

Uncovered and polished new.


And then, there was us.

A collapse of Rome

And in my grave

A swollen reprove

Long since overdue.


And then was I

Laid to rest

The oddments of careless you.