Leveler Poetry Journal
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Winter Sequence


I dig my fingers into the flesh

Of night’s wound. Honey-pale,

The webbing of the stars torn
Out, again and again.

The snow falls like the flapping
Of a tigermoth’s wings.


I spend afternoons in the gardens

Of the sanatorium,

Picking orchids from the air;
Peeling away the

Muscular honeycombs
Of my dying, sorrowful brain.


The snow is hollow to the touch. Things are

So beautiful here in the mountains.

In the spring the tubers will push themselves
Out of the earth and give us life again,

The way butterflies dream of next year’s wings-
So obscene and lovely, pulled apart in the hands.


I am winter-broken,

The tendon of life severed

And curled back into the muscle.
Now I lay at the navel of the earth

Unwrinkled like a child;
There are real stars in the sky


In the spring hyacinths will bloom

In the white hills, and

Obscure themselves,
Because they are so fragile,

The pale petals, and dead nightingales;
All that we grieve for.

Mariel Glass