Loving with Scissors

— Sara Ryan

this is a place of joy, I guess. the sun rises and sets
             in brassy exclamations of light. I write poems

             about being in love with nobody but wind.
my mouth is a little red animal. I love lightning—

I live at the top of a hill and roll my body down
             until my bones hit lake. it is a big fake dream, living

             here in a house made of ghosts. it is easy
to be invisible in the woods. if I start making

a movie out of my life. if I pan out to show
             a blue car rumbling through Kentucky. if I cut open

             the chest of a wolf and find milk. what then.
I could leave here forever and never come back.

I’ll say: this is the road I traveled away from
             this place. this is the national forest that cried

             out my name as I drove. this is the coyote I saw
as I left the state. I’ve never seen a coyote, but

I sometimes dream of heaven. every place I have
             known has hurt me. I have always been a set

of containers. I break and am jostled in the backseats
             of cars or in cardboard boxes. this is to say

that I miss the soft things. feeling safe
             in crosswalks of cities I love. I drop a pair

             of scissors and catch them, the shears
open against my hand like wings.

Read more from Issue No. 14 or share on Twitter.