Volume III Archive

Rebecca Aronson

Aerial

In the hollow of a shadow, there’s room
for a wing or a breath. What grows

is a lack, the eye glides past an abandoned nest,
pile of stick and leaf, shallow bowl,

scattered light, lost feather spun
in rubble. Gravestone tiles stain the church floor

with a pattern of portals,
and this is a bird’s eye scene

from the highest post, roaring with stillness
for a tight second—

then down, drowning in the space of a doorway,
then down into the green place

where what resides unseen
is growing another life

from ashes, a veil of dust on the skin of a girl;
she reaches into a brown bag for a peach

to hold to her nose for a long breath—
then return to its sack, uneaten.