Poetry.
She traveled across this self-same country without ever meeting you. And you’re walking the hills behind your father’s house and gasping at the holes in the leaves. You’re petting the
donkeys while she whispers friendship to the horses in the distance. Watching her read a poem in a field of dead corn and learning the notes to her laugh like a phone number. Used to hum a
ten-digit melody like this one when you dialed the girl you loved ten years ago. So what if your whiskey falls into the hot tub now.
"A fierce talent and vision."—Maggie Nelson