On Expansion and Descent

by Hazel Byers



I have discovered what it is to live on a hill: in the blue

world of first awakening, you were in my arms. Under


the quilt and the light of the window, a stirring. When I

lowered myself onto you, thinking this, this. The Canada geese


are southbound over my rooftop today, their bodies a

series of Vs and neighboring V-shapes, making their way


to a less familiar home. With my neck craned upwards

I watch them go, thinking of my own familiarities as they


branch off, changing form, becoming something unknown.

Out there, the lake has frozen over. The sun settles over


Michigan again and in the alley behind the house a boy runs,

his shirt ridden up, showing the world its own soft underbelly.


I call my mother to tell her I lied, I had really seen it all as it unfolded:

the love, then the rupturing, your mess, how you storied me


with the house that would never be, the evening sun brightening

its windows, its suspended dust. I cannot imagine there


are years after this. I run in the dark, looking at the moon as

it climbs over the southwest hills. Out there, fly geese.


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