I have heard the flames
hunting inside your glossary.

                      A starling calls
                      from my folded window.

I won’t outgrow next year’s stone.

Beneath your cordilleras,
ripe artery exhibit,

                      I take my feed, I drink
                      my childhood thread.

I find no stamps
in your red lagoon,
                      only scent of paper burning.

Last breath happens
when last word has been seen.

You are the pound
of pink cold

                      unlocking from the water’s spine.


Mai Der Vang

Erin CaseJuice (collage)