Last Origin of Ice
We put him in the Sound, all that was left
of Mom’s boyfriend a memory of waves,
fine crumble of earth after coals burned out.
We were so far from the sun the birds fled,
but whitecaps recalled their fresh ghosts,
shudder of flight without flight. They know
nothing on earth can hold its form for long;
that the sun troubles water as it rises.
131 The Paris-American
Eve Strillacci, a product of the Hollins University MFA program, now works at a cooking store and sleeps in an attic the approximate temperature of a Jacuzzi. Her work has recently appeared in Birdfeast, Sixth Finch, JMWW, and elsewhere. In 2013 she was a recipient of the Gertrude Claytor Poetry prize. All Eve’s poems have been be grudgingly proofread by her feisty identical twin, and any success is likely due to this.
Next week's poet:
Rebecca Morgan Frank