I am not healing the way I should.
            From a distance the fog is smoke –
same gray hazy-plumed howl. It is there and not there,
            bloated middle then disappearing
without resolve. I know there is no origin,
            no fire, only the wet exhale of spruce-fir
and oak. Still I want another reason
            for the white halos that crown
the mountains, for why I always feel
            I am here and not here, why
a barbed vine knots around my womb, thistled
            twinge that wakes me. The mountains ask why
I won’t come back. Because I have always run
            heart first into a fire and there is no fire.
Because the thing I tried to kill is still
            slivered inside of me like iron shavings: scraps
of a life I did not want and I want
            to crash so hard I send a shiver
through the mountains’ jagged vertebrae.

Jessica Lynn Suchon

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