| E. Kristin Anderson |
Remembering the Deadread by e. kristin anderson The witches bare their hands deep in the woods, gather the January dirt, cold and dead, powder their noses and lay in the sticks. Here will be spring, where yesterday's eyelashes were blown, where we buried the body of a fallen starling. Cover your ears, you'll hear them wailing as they coax the wildflowers to wake up, wake up.  Your Lettersread by e. kristin anderson I imagine your letters like soft fruit, with all their nectar, the envy of the postman. They are the strain of a sweet dirge that hums in the harbor when the moon rises on the rocks. Your letters are not caresses or stuffed with pressed flowers: they strike me like the bitter wind of February. I imagine you would bring me a sweater, a cup of tea and with your hands on my cheeks I might hear you whisper a greeting. |