Amber Hirt

A rabbit in my dad‘s backyard, a stabbing in the city

I drape a black sheath around myself when I want to feel whole

I do not to let it touch the skin

a tree moves in the breeze and I feel sick 

a girl rides past calling out for mom 

a cloud moves over the sun

it all seems planned out

I make amends with my body every night by washing my hands and brushing my teeth 

I close the door and turn off the light in one breath and wake up clenching my jaw

at work I walk myself through my past and try on each memory like a pair of gloves 

falling asleep and being carried back to my room 

crying in the backyard

I’m not sure i will ever feel that lightness again

feet stepping into wet grass

waist bent over at the river 

I push my hands deep into the mud 

no one cries like my mother