By Alexa Brockamp Hoggatt
How green it feels here—
You sang to the wind and it carried me away. Not a
sweet song—
An old dog. A street cat.
Harsh, heavy wind.
I am come to make a home of your cage. How green it feels
—to make a home of time. How fixed they are, your bones.
So strong. I slip like sand through the airy space between
ribs. Soft and bodiless.
Some ancient thing wakes from a freeze and melts into
the valley. Just a nap. Just a thousand mornings. You
have to be boneless to stay. The moon is burning
silver and I’m just burning. Go and tell the bees it has
started.
Alexa Brockamp Hoggatt is a poet and programmer from Tacoma, Washington. Although there is endless machine to rage against, Alexa writes poetry as a sort of running list of reasons humans deserve to go on existing: The tenderness, the shared experience, the soft parts. Her dad woke up every morning after coughing through the night from breathing sand and dust at work and said “It’s another perfect day” and that is what she wants her poems to say: Even if you have sand in your lungs, it’s another perfect day.
