there’s no salt…

— AM Ringwalt

there’s no salt in the air
no cactus-blade

                            so I locate
myself in wanting, brow bent

myself in [               ]

the not-narrative

of creek,
of deer’s stare

through thicket / I
locate my-


counting deer against absence

               (fifteen bodies of fur)

dreaming of winged things
on my skin—no docks, no

                       this Pegasus,

these looping branches

(do I detach or fill?)

I locate in ho-
llow, futile arm span

wanting the wool of
my grandmother, her hand

on the radio, / thermostat,
eyes tiring

wanting wool
against cold

I kneel to the sightless sky
so it might take me

I kneel to the sightless sky
this prayer for flight

I speak through this branch-loop,
interior clearing:

                                                          What does the deer see when it looks at me?

Read more from Issue No. 28 or share on Twitter.