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If Gravity

is a yield.

Is the falling into

of a field.

If of sunflowers.

If you fall

into their orbits

with heavy-headed hunger,

with urge.

If curvature.

If a million mirrors

mirror the suns

you bury yourself among.

If you’re uprooted

and flung

toward the sun,

face-first.

If perihelion.

If your faith

to the field

is uncertain

as a hawk’s flight

from a lureless glove.

If so, then rest somewhere

between these two

surfaces of sun

in an endless catch

and fall.

Let your face

face the direction

you came from.

 
 
 

Claire Wahmanholm's poems are forthcoming from The Journal, Parcel, The Kenyon Review Online, The Blueshift Journal, BOAAT, and Third Coast, and have been featured on Verse Daily. She is a PhD student at the University of Utah, where she co-edits Quarterly West.