Jill Kitchen

we slammed the night against the sound

weave me into sky, the sliver moon.
show me what kind of bird you are.

the deer carry messages. orion’s belt of bright.
chaos of dream, throat catch of insides.

you move without physics without touch.
how i am almost not here, split near

clean of my edges, a wing painted &
stretched into silk, into mountain rust.

my flesh becomes owl call. pulse of
caught breath, bluish vein.

ghosts of mountain lions crackle in the leaves.
i see them in my sleep, unafraid.

these bodies we have to keep carrying,
can’t shed like the crisp of cicada.

walls do not matter once you are
without bone, without breath.

coyotes lean into tree. to be held again
by skin, that cell-song of hope.

i always dream you closer. breathe
the night of my name.

we all break. & burn

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Jill Kitchen's work appears or is forthcoming in Ecotone, HAD, Parentheses Journal, The Penn Review, Pidgeonholes, Radar Poetry, Rust & Moth, SWWIM, Tahoma Literary Review, Whale Road Review and elsewhere. She lives in Boulder, Colorado where she can be found rollerskating on the creek path searching for great horned owls. Twitter: @jillkitchen