Dear Sarah, The Paper Says It's Over 60 Degrees -
Our patterns of weathering are, mathematically speaking, similar -
small worlds of us divinely aging.
I dreamt of you last night furiously stamping on a piece of dark,
distorted version of my face
but with a body too long -
I have been known to be in two places at once, yet how am I here
in an offering plate - having nothing.
In my dreams you live in houses that burn light from the inside
in all of them, the same mouth,
your soft eyes, your old man smell,
the way you stick out your clawed hand to shake mine and say
"Each leaf that falls leaves a scar is a strange thing to write."
I am giving myself up to the wind
so that autumn could be all the time, or never
until its absence would cause the greater pain.
I'm afraid my sense will fall out -
get lost in the snow and make more of me.
I woke up somewhere in Ohio, or that's how it smells.
About the author:
Tara Westmor is an anthropologist poet, raised in Dayton, Ohio. She received her Bachelor’s in Anthropology at the University of Cincinnati and has recently moved to Las Cruces, New Mexico where she is pursuing an MFA in poetry at New Mexico State University.