i have been thinking about my spine recently, the way it hangs
 
emily ellison

from each tree like Spanish 

moss, ochre-streaking 

the sky as the sun sleeps

against earth. 

               and each dragonfly 

wing filament, my own translucent 

neck. swans 

fly my lungs into a lace.

the collected bric-a-brac

of ribbed day

rattles the flora and fauna

of becoming sentient

through the self’s deepest contractions, 

remembering 

the delicate 

pistil and its mouth 

licked. 

               this, communion: 

hear the skin of everything

rise with pride. 

and nothing dies

as nothing.

Emily Ellison is a third year MFA poet at Texas State University, where she also works as an Teaching Assistant for their English faculty. Her work is upcoming or found in Rock & Sling, Southword, Gordon Square Review, and Haiku Journal, among other places. Emily lives in San Marcos, Texas with four cats and an abundance of plants (withering at the moment).

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