Olla

The cold bundles tongues into tiny packages of wet

palpitating the salty bare flat of silence flooding
………………………………………………………………………………this early dark.

We find ourselves here, wedged open like an oven door.

/

The lexicons gather

/

flavor in small integers of lonely—the loose gas cap, the file

That happened without format—the shuddering of the park bench

……………………………………………………………………………..beneath its oak.

The season finds itself then, between blades. Bleeding into cavity—four walls, a

Light, tissues, candy. The sun sweeps clouds to cover the tracks,

Slicing its own pulse out of the day-navel. We

Mold its heart chambers with long and round fingers. They yield like heavy

………………………………………………………………………………Clay.

Memory vesseled dissolves in alkaline. We stretch a woven harvest over the

Curve of planet. My son is learning to name her history:

Moun                          …. tain                           …………..   moun

Tain                                                                         …… ……………..  weaf.

____

Sonya Wohletz is a writer and researcher whose interests include colonial history, behavioral health, the motions of the planets, and tarot. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Latin American Literary Review, Ghost City Press, Salmon Creek Review, and others.