Let me tell you a story
of wind and branch and song
at the tumbling edge
of autumn where trees rust
against rain-speckled nights.
There was a man who kissed
my throat, promised to drag
my car from any ditch in the slip
of winter, and the black bear
who promised nothing,
though I fed her half my heart.
They both drank from the cistern
I’d carved into my body,
jaws dribbling red
until I couldn’t tell one
from the other.
I prayed for a kinder
changing of the seasons,
but that’s a wish, not a story,
and I’ve torn into what’s left,
leaving me unfished, ungranted.

Taylor Hamann Los, a white woman with long, blond hair and blue eyes wearing a lavender-colored shirt.

Taylor Hamann Los holds an MLIS from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and is currently an MFA student at Lindenwood University. Her poetry has appeared in Parentheses Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Split Rock Review, and Rust + Moth, among others. She lives with her family and two cats in Wisconsin. You can find her on Twitter (@taylorhamannlos) and at taylorhamannlos.wordpress.com.