The sky moves with a murder and charm,
all birds black at this distance from where
I lay in the dirt; the body breaks itself
with taut calves weak spine long neck.
Heavy. Sometimes I just need to suspend
the length of me, drop breaths into a hushed
keen and let my weight distribute equally
like February’s moon, full in shape but empty.
Blood stills like resin, and I refuse to blink.
Butterflies, or bees—whatever small
fluttered thing comes over me—look
for tears only to dust pollen on my dry cheeks.
Night no small medicine as the hunger moon
rises, and I pretend the pain has all but suffused
throughout my body. I am cold enough
now, same weight enough now, to crawl
forward and bring myself up from the ground
as if I didn’t just witness what death does.
Makensi Ceriani received an MA in English from the Pennsylvania State University, and she is currently an MFA candidate at Virginia Tech. Her work has appeared most recently at Burning House Press.