Poetry Issue 15

   Issue #17 : July-December 2012

Marni Ludwig



Iron


      What I see in you is nothing
      fitting. The curtains torn down
      for pleating, the trees outside
      the window curling in at their limbs.
      The earth is flat, believe it
      when you sweat, when you sit
      on the step, kin to a black burn.
      If you can’t sleep upon stopping.
      If you’re closed at the throat.
      I’ll be waiting with the winter wool,
      pressing flowers into your hands.