by Jacqueline Winter Thomas
Think of me, Hannah, when the city turns
to flesh & mold.
Words remind of other words.
Skin of other skin.
This is this because it is not that.
You hold a leaf & say it is
all other leaves.
When a child dreams of the unknown—
ghosts, storms, strange waters—it is not
the other they fear, but the other in them-
Martin counting coffee spoons
in the lonely hour, whispers his sorrows
to the unsuspecting moon. The owl too.
These fragments I have shored
against my ruins.
Again, into the night
I cannot find your face from ash
& bone from wind.