Kathryn Merwin


I.       I find you in the soft wind
        at the edge of the wood at dusk. Your bones  
        are China patterned, they blue your skin
        light as the western sky. 
II.      I am a quarter ghost on my father’s side – the girls
        and I inherited a lightness, a certain shade of moon-
        white falls across our forearms. We are always
        somewhere, disappearing. 
III.     The garden is lined with strange bodies – broken
        mirrors, dead geraniums, weeds matted
        like baby hairs. The stars spin in their terrible waltz
        and I laugh. 
IV.     You once unfolded 
        into me – a body, full and blooming
        with darkness. I sank my hands into your ribs,
        painted my arms with the heat of night.
V.      I find you in the cold snap
        behind the shed at sunrise. You pour through the grass, 
        soak into soil. (You are always somewhere,


Kathryn Merwin is a native of Washington, D.C. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Booth, Blackbird, So to Speak, and Sugar House Review, among others. She has been awarded the Nancy D. Hargrove Editors' Prize for Poetry, the Blue Earth Review Annual Poetry Prize, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is currently pursuing her MFA through Western Washington University.

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