Poems & Essays

05 Feb

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The cornea scratches easily,
pulls an eye into the present,
says, here, see the danger,
the thinness between inner
jellies and bright world,
between you and me,
between arteries and veins,
between deer and fawns,
between one planet and another,
between night and endless, starlit day?

My daughter lies in bed,
shaded by a damp cloth,
double-Adviled up,
waiting for cells to
stitch together across a
minute gash that feels
wide as a canyon.

I wait, watching her sleep,
hoping for ropes across
the ravine, wishing for
water through boulders,
wanting bacteria to infect
something else, if it must:
some fly, some forest edge,
some frozen comet
hurtling through sterile space.

 

 

Vivian Wagner is an associate professor of English at Muskingum University in New Concord, Ohio. Her work has appeared in Muse /A Journal, Forage Poetry Journal, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Creative Nonfiction, The Atlantic, The Ilanot Review, Silk Road Review, Zone 3, Eyedrum Periodically, 3QR, and other publications. She’s also the author of a memoir, Fiddle: One Woman, Four Strings, and 8,000 Miles of Music (Citadel-Kensington), and a poetry collection, The Village (Kelsay Books).

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