Amy Butcher

The Iowa Review - - FRONT PAGE -

and I was a pale yel­low crack­ing sound pale in yel­low woods be­fore this time I have not given away my body to be burned to hang like Christ or float river-end-ward some say to heaven af­ter all not in woods ei­ther and I have kept it close this body then lent it brown as twig-fall­ing that goes on with­out praise or com­plaint and as you are I am still what once was also what be­came of it shed its hayslips its white old-field asters a fall sound brit­tle in trees and the fu­ture of what can’t be said pale yel­low and it’s got its blue cen­ter how body in sun­shine com­pared with body in dark­ness af­ter all doesn’t end or be­gin but a faint out­line of fox ears by road­side be­comes I was the one slow­ing down for you I was in­side the fast-mov­ing thing like yours my skin slipped from me eas­ily into another no I’m go­ing now no look for me later but how to look for sound and with what any­way to find a slip­ping thing the crops turn­ing the trees their yawn­ing-in-wind this is not this is not that mo­ment in which the blue-eye grass opens the cat­mint wilts and fin­ishes this is another into which I am that young body go­ing go­ing and you are not yet born

but some­how in­side me and who your fa­ther will be af­ter all that pale yel­low­ing is still a ques­tion but not for­ever

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