Christmas, 2007 / No. 19


head, hamstrung

heart, she bends to the faun-smelling

earth for the comfort of dirt.

Were there no

real demons

she could quickly decide on light.

Wind clicks,

shadows split

and spill

through quirky trees:

Glyphs and sigils.

Sigils and glyphs.

The sun in her blood is not enough—

she leans to heliopsis,

Lenten rose;

sinks her fingers into the soil,

taps a glassy surface.

Slowly, over the hour,

works a window

out of the earth.

Soap veneered to its panes

congeals the view.

Elana Wolff is a writer, editor, translator, and designer and facilitator of social art courses. Her fifth solo collection of poems, Everything Reminds You of Something Else, was published this spring. She has contributed to the magazine since 2000. Last updated winter, 2017–2018.