[TAG I SAW YOU IN THE WOODS]

Tag I saw you in the woods 
Tag I drove thru Athens, Ohio 
And imagined you there how 
As kids you spoke of using speed
And running naked thru the trees 

Tag you are this blur, fever, finding
Form, still forever finding form, so
What is your heaven, no what was in your
Hand when you ran, what did you
Dream of, and did you dream 

And when you died did you know
You were already flying, already flying,
Tag, saturate blur upon my breast

MISSIVE, NOT QUITE AUBADE

D., my cunt is still wet from last night even tho you are not here.
I woke this morning with an urgency to write. I held your book
in my palm and looked out the window. I stretched my hips from
the floor. Last night, I dreamed we were at a motel pool. Maybe
it was Florida. It felt placeless, which is how I have experienced
love most of the time. With you, I think of certain trees, a quarry.
When I write to you I am looking for the right words—breath,
my lips turning upwards, an ease and glint of teeth. You don’t
know this, but my words have been used against me. I keep this
to myself and consider the weight of the paper of your book. I’ve
just read about Japanese paper, how it reflects the light, how dark-
ness intensifies perception. It felt ironic to read about the limits of
Western paper in a book printed on just that, but at least I was in
a darkened room, sun on the blinds like a scroll illuminating itself.
I think there must be many limits—to love, to light, my hips. I’m
learning to limit pain. Meanwhile, my cunt is a perfect circle, and
it feels like you were here. You want an invitation but I think
tenderness is often the only force worth attending to. Come here.
Yesterday, I walked around the garden noting different shapes. I
was struck by a cement structure that was as tall as my waist and
a perfect cylinder. The O shape of the opening was a portal or a
halo. I’ve been reading a lot about spirals, labyrinths, and the
future. Longing might be a thing that reaches to experience that’s
passed, but wanting is its own kind of O, a knowing, pulsing poetry.

MARJORIE

to swerve 
again as 
my own 
snow-thing 
snowiest memory
i dreamed
about your 
neighborhood
in California 
the night of 
your hospital-
ization know 
dying at 90 
isn’t a surprise
when i spoke 
into my phone
it got wet 
perspiration 
‘round tree 
and stone 
little fruit 
in my purse 
there’s a little
creek at the 
beach where 
waste collects
and flows to 
ocean i jumped
over it in May
with Sam he 
said the tide 
pools un- 
furling were 
like a real life
aquarium he 
leaned on 
my chest we 
rested in sand
Marjorie i wore
your diamond 
heart your thin 
gold chain like 
a trail of water 
do you drool when
you sleep when you
go know it’s not
swerving i hear your
warbling chorus
i hear stories 
in your breath 
a sequence of dogs
different pianos
one long coast, 
Pacific, how love
kept you and 
made you how 
you still speak as
we and us you 
remind me it’s 
possible

AM Ringwalt is a writer and musician whose work appears in Jacket2, Music & Literature, and Black Warrior Review. Called "rich with emotion" by Pitchfork and "arresting" by FLOOD, Summer Angel is out now on Dear Life Records. What Floods is forthcoming from Inside the Castle. Currently, she is a visiting instructor at Interlochen Arts Academy. Previously, she was an artist-in-residence at the Watermill Center.