My Love For Myself Is As Quiet As A Weed by Augusta Funk

Without sickness or the list
of factory-feelings a person
calls dreams. A person can wake.
A person can lie down, put
her hands in the snow and call it
desire. If there’s ghost
behind her eyes, it’s a forest,
half full of trees and yellow skies.
Remember the deep, shapeless peace
of floodlights, of bats? The body
pressed into a winding sheet?
She doesn’t have to change.
She doesn’t even have to speak.
She walks home between winter
and spring, the horizon unzips
and I’m inside.
Augusta Funk is a queer poet from the Midwest. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Best New Poets, the Massachusetts Review, Passages North, and elsewhere. She lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where she received her MFA at the University of Michigan.