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).
