unnamed
the night that life died inside the folds of me, she was the size of
a chestnut, the fingernail-clipping moon, a wisp of bottled air
with the fragility of a cicada wing. she left the potatoes going cold
in a bowl as if fists of clay. left the nubs and scabs on the
juniper tree uncounted, the pigeons bulging in the streets and fanning
from orange clay rooftops unchased. she left the strawberries uneaten,
freckled skin unitched, furniture unscathed, the pantry undisturbed and
well-arranged.
Rowan Tate is a creative and curator of beauty. She reads nonfiction nature books, the backs of shampoo bottles, and sometimes minds.