by Jared Povanda
With angular gaps in the branches. Light everywhere. In my hair, on my skin, claws of it and petals. A bullet went through a person last night, exit wound in the back, and as I walk the quarantine weight away day after day, I think of the fragility of bodies. I think of thin bones torquing and the capriciousness of cancer. Of lungs crying like seagulls. I think of coyotes communing, their rusty yips as they run as one body, and a hermit crab’s infinitesimal grace as it carries the weight of its home on its body. Summer storms with long legs of lightning. And how, high above and far from the mortal coil, celestial bodies can sometimes do nothing but shatter into brilliance.
Jared Povanda is an internationally published writer and freelance editor from upstate New York. His work can be found in Pidgeonholes, Maudlin House, Ellipsis Zine, CHEAP POP, and Hobart, among others. Find him @JaredPovanda and jaredpovandawriting.wordpress.com