Construction Literary Magazine

January 2017 Writers Respond

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Photograph via Flickr by Farouq Taj

You fold your arms the way this pasture
gnaws on the wooden fence
left standing in water—make a raft

though it’s these rotting staves
side by side that set the Earth on fire
with smoke rising from the ponds

as emptiness and ice—you dead
are winter now, need more wood
to breathe and from a single finger

point, warmed with ashes and lips
no longer brittle—under you
a gate is opened for the cold

and though there’s no sea you drink
from your hands where all tears blacken
—you can see yourself in the flames.