What eaves know, host
to swallow’s nest,
a rat snake’s ribbing wrap.
is like that. Pine planked. Grey honeycomb
pining for originary use. Alfalfa tang,
an in-mind stench. Mind abandoned
roadside. Left like a mine
falling in. From the highest angle nests
the densest dark, riding weather
like a carriage to the ground. Tucked
in cedar, orange froth
circling nail heads. Falling
out. That thought, gripped between
my teeth and hammer claw’s
I will not say’s been prayer
all the while I’ve been living
here. Do not labor with your prayer
like a hammer. The barn’s
a colony of wood dissolving
in the dark.
Alicia Wright is originally from Rome, Georgia, and has received fellowships from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in The Paris Review, Ecotone, West Branch, Crazyhorse, and jubilat, among others. At present, she is a PhD candidate in English & Literary Arts at the University of Denver, where she serves as the Denver Quarterly Editorial Fellow (Associate Editor). Follow her @aliciaawwright.