Self-Ad­dressed

The London Magazine - - CONTENTS - Aly­cia Pir­mo­hamed

Into the tall dark, into the ta­ma­rack wood, into a city, which at this hour, could be the shape of any mi­grat­ing bird.

This is me, driv­ing straight into my own life, past the river frozen over slick, the chokecherry’s saw toothed edges—

into the roughage of mem­o­ries that sur­face slow and tired, mem­o­ries so alike the stars en­act­ing what is al­ready gone.

I am grasping at the things eas­i­est to love: Anas acuta, Pi­nus resinosa, An­thaxia in­or­nata, the lan­guage of the prairies,

syn­tax that I have held like a dog with birch in her mouth, a land­scape that runs through a body, is a body—

into the boil­ing gin­ger, into the neck of a loved one folded like a lev­eret, folded like a let­ter clos­ing with I wish you were here,

I wish you were here—

Third Place in the Po­etry Prize 2018

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