Like where muhlygrasses meet their own cessation,
any landscape seared against a barren scald will do
for what grows at the edge of all such places? that hairsbreadth border between where and
A populous of ghostly laborers we had all of us used to feel ourselves into, grown used to using
and used quite-weary up
in the narrow:
those broken gourd bodies,
guts out in the residential, half-block street.
[And when we got under the skin there was no looking back, divulsion, diversion, a hey-look-at
me soft-bruised apple dropped and rolling down the gable,
then roundboundaried hesitation, a hover of gutter and garden.]
Rachel Franklin Wood grew up in Laramie, Wyoming. Currently, she lives in Boulder, Colorado, where she is an MFA candidate at CU Boulder and the Managing Editor of TIMBER. Recent work has appeared in We Want It All: An Anthology of Trans Poetics (Nightboat) and is forthcoming in Hayden’s Ferry Review. Her chapbook, Every Spring Underneath, is available from Dancing Girl Press.