by lauren lockhart
men with their mile counting and their maps maps with their measurement and lines, a curious violence. the Aspen bends where she wishes, stooping to touch a white rock nameless I am surprised to find that she touches me first and the Hackberry tree advises that I follow the bird. I know which one she means, the one that fits inside my eye which means go where the water is which means name your daughter before the men begin to measure her.