Blood rivers past chalk ribs. Scars in the palm catch, contract.
I’m a poorly knit creature, caught at the seams. Diminishing
bones in October. I do my deep breathing, put on a sweater,
fray at the edges. My aesthetic these days is anthropocene pastoral
by way of impending disaster. Meaning, ideally, curled up in a golden
hour, supine in a field full of early autumn rabbits. Frayed prettily
at the hem. Ready and made to absorb, reflect, to embody the effects,
to curve by way of collapse. Oh, bitter embodiment in a fracturing time.
Appalling—why do I keep centering this body, these hands. Instead allow
a naturally occurring revelation: let these permeable edges give. Undone
by the roots. The first form is lost. Revealed—what if I become the field.
Seedy and threadbare in autumn, holding small mammals while the sun
slips off the scene. We curl in a beastly hour. For a moment we are brilliant,
drenched in this endless red weather, the dying and waterless glare—
Kristen Holt-Browning’s chapbook, The Only Animal Awake in the House, was the runner-up in Moonstone Press’s 2021 Annual Chapbook Contest. She lives in Beacon, New York, where she works as a freelance editor. Find her at at www.kristenholt-browning.com or on Instagram @theholtbrowning.