What numbness strung
lateral like

a taproot sky,
where we assemble the lone

and are among them.
Sovereign of the dead, who

would rise to greet you
with these tall axils

appearing before:
needles like sea grass,

low now in slow rot
brown with the early

spice of itself?
So now

my human eyes
are yours

blue-violet and strung
to ground-clover.

As what is
myself, forgive me—I am

a violent
faulty thing.

 

Image from Flickr via Gemstone

Sara J. Grossman

Sara J. Grossman has been awarded fellowships from The MacDowell Colony, Hedgebrook, and Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. Her poems have been published in The Cincinnati Review, Memorious, VerseDaily, Thrush, and Louisville Review.