Replication of a Miracle

by Katherine Indermaur

For Owen Steinmann (2016-2017)

Sugars trickle from maples’ taut trunks, sapping
summer energy, the crystallized light of wanting 
to stay alive. But what melody the drops make a man
from a pulpit always says as they leap out the spout, 
percuss the bucket’s galvanized bottom. Yes, such sweet
vasculature and saccharine, this living always 
toward death. He calls for recalling thinner times, 
the feel of liveliness not yet stuck in the spiles
and given up. Forgetting doesn’t rid
our bones of any ache. Look—I’m trying
to hold open every leaking word all winter long
but this bark cracks, defenseless against air
and overfull. For each legible ring,
more lost. For each lived ache, a flume
of language unspun by air among us.

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