Tessa Smith
it takes something newborn and shot through by green. to look
into this wide open sky. this expanse and see circling hope.
my vulture hanging low to the horizon. carrion-charmed
reaching with claws. outstretched and clutching deep.
for forearm tendons so that i might. in this catastrophe.
find something to do with my hands.
ii.
in the longest dream you have you tunnel years below the earth. your greatest
fear is that you will be buried on this same plot of land. you carve the roots into slivers
and slide the pieces into your torso. springtime shoots reach between your spine
and sternum like so many mismatched ribs.
iii.
the veins skate up our arms as a winter frost, reaching back and back for the heart.
butterfly names fold into our femurs, sharp-bladed and ready to fall for the grasping arm of gravity.
we are slipping into reflections and staring into twin mirrors, until the glass reflects back only emerald
green.
iv.
under the lake the weeds swallow everything, choking hollowed throats to reach the heart, i reach
through algae and pull back fingers slicked with broken-bottle hues, bubbles carrying caught words to
the sky, this is a story that i am telling and the vulture looping ripples is waiting for the ragged end to
reach the surface.
Tessa Smith is currently studying astronomy in Christchurch and desperately missing the anti-summer of Dunedin Januaries. She takes inspiration from Louise Glück, Richard Siken, Mary Oliver, and Keaton St. James.