by Lauren Bledsoe
In this cage of bone a stranger strikes the sky.
A dress touches the floor. Everywhere the river.
Everywhere the people are turning into trees.
In this country mirrors dissolve like prayers, a pair of birds.
Dusty roads without windows. Someone asks you for the light
you haven’t had in years. There is nothing left but water:
the same rain, all this air. A stranger approaches.
And when you open yourself: nothing.
But when you’re broken open:
silence clearer than the human voice.