by Nain Christopherson
I never leave—can’t leave—the house without
a gallon-sized Ziploc full of paper cranes.
That’s what happens
the third, the eightieth time they say your prayer
is just a siren sounding, distant, from the valley—hear
my desperation almost
far enough away to be confused
with birdsong?
Still. I think I believe
in this human work: the nightly rediscovery
of a sleep position, the bruises’
unfurling before they heal.
My hands, for instance, continue to inhabit
my hair, which continues sprouting
though I hack
off the ends. Off the hangnails, off
the deadened skin around my blisters,
off the heads
of my enemies, the daffodils readying
themselves for rebirth by, first, dying.
I left my doors ajar and heard the flowers
crumple willingly to the dirt.
Ought I to go
so whispering? Or else, by never asking,
am I going now.
Nain Christopherson (she/her) lives, writes, and teaches high school English in Salt Lake City, where she also co-edits The Garlic Press. Her work has been featured in SUNHOUSE, The Shore, Scribendi, and The Exponent II, and was longlisted for Frontier Poetry’s 2023 Award for New Poets.