given up to the wind with arms like fire, ash upon ash, charcoal dust and soot ruins, I’d take you down past the still flowering rose bushes, past the stump of our neighbor’s old tree, past the snow falling like mad. Beloved Thomas, my own heart, brought up screaming like a bruise, you deserve windsong, cloud whisper, atmospheric perspective. For all the earth you have troubled with your steps, for every structure raised by your palms, for every near death that wed you to me, I must empty you in my own curls, must kiss each bit of you, so I may fly you into the myriad stars, let you sink into the deep of my skin.
Krystal Howard is currently a PhD candidate in Literature at Western Michigan University, and has served as the Poetry Editor for Third Coast. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Barn Owl Review, American Poetry Journal, Quarterly West, Superstition Review, Weave Magazine, Prism Review, and PANK.