by Elissa Minor
The world chat lost you never had a name; you fluttered your soft cadences, built a cocoon, and were gone. In the end it was the words chat remembered you (the permanent dent in the sofa, the morning jog past unlighted windows, the seeds your detail planted, only lent a hand). When this thought came, you had already abandoned your wings; the knowing that test run after test run had prepared for you. These seeds haven't heard beyond the soil—might never touch the air outside the poem your life has written, the thread you followed and the warning you gave: "The darkness around us is deep."