A day, a thousand days, and a hundred years
The blue jay that flew through the open window, fluttered aboutthen vanished, leaving some wildness. She, too, wanted thatin her life and tried to find it in language.
Sometimes we need to say words that make us feel,taste, or smell — corduroy, cinnamon, lilac. Sherecalls the smell of oregano in rain, an invisible
mountain calling forth, and how the drifting stars seem unformedwords, or that there was always a hidden blank within each sentence
that needed to be filled in? Sometimes it hurts, this listeningclose — the word No so filled with shadow,and Yes with its wide, slapping ocean. Time
with its long-i-engine not wanting to run down. She knew it like the windor the haze of dust settling and resettling…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2025