A wound is a wound is a wound is a wound
until it isn’t.
A scab is a scab is a scab is a scab
until picked and dropped or crushed into
dust-mite dust. Congealed, a gnarly memory
is a memory is a memory is a memory
until it isn’t.
It’s red-red blood on slate feathers or on
moon-bright brittle bones or it’s
a blur, a fog in the mountains, it’s
that which wafts through outlines of far-away
trees and settles between cramped roots as if
to caress capillaries
wanting for water, or that which
rises when light teases it to drift up
into the atmosphere where
up is up is up is up
until it isn’t.
–
Alina Zollfrank from (former) East Germany loathes wildfire smoke and writes in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has appeared in Last Leaves, Thimble, The Braided Way, Wordgathering, Feral, Two Thirds North, Red Ogre Review, Nude Bruce Review, October Hill Magazine, Psaltery & Lyre, Pulse, Invisible City, and others.
© 2024, Alina Zollfrank
Halfway Down the Stairs 