Jeremiah is the butterfly in this poem, clothed in your nimbleness, your light love that he
tore. You are the husk in this poem. Jeremiah and the crill. Jeremiah who you loved in the
willows, his nimble fingers on your rib skittering like birds on a wire. Every morning, his
side of the bed empty. You a meaty thing, unshaped pulp he could molt when he grew too
lovely. Jeremiah and the crill. Jeremiah and you, the husk. Jeremiah, gone from you gone
from gone. Jeremiah, the birdless willow tree, the wingsome, winsome, on the wing.


Tara Mae Mulroy is a graduate of the MFA program in poetry at the University of Memphis and a 2015 recipient of the Tennessee Williams scholarship. Her poems, stories, and essays are published or forthcoming in Third Coast, CutBank, Weave, Waccamaw, and others. Her chapbook, Philomela, was released from dancing girl press in 2014, and she is sending out her first full-length collection, Swallow Tongue. She currently teaches Latin.