(If viewing this poem on a handheld device, please rotate to landscape mode to provide maximum width for each line.)
After my eyes, the colors. After expired mind. After each and every time asked and asked again
to come and join love.
After this stunted form. After pasture and pasture and pasture: night. After the room we shared
inside her, brother and sister and I. After the grace of another reincarnation irrevocably sighs
After orange finally undoes the face of sky, human or not. After big blue illegal flowers anyway.
After the breath of light in, light out, light in. After bronze mercy flailing.
After the shape of one language ends, another. After time leaps time. After hands of days held,
prostrate and waning into that which supersedes geometry. After map and map and map: no
After the trees have eaten of all the light. After they can no longer bend it to their will. After
the moonbirds come back grey and haunting, old vultures in a new world. After seven black
oceans return to each other, laughing. After the last living fish takes breath a last time, its
luminescence knelt down slowly, slowly. It is just one sound, and small.
Amanda Leahy is a native of Lowell, Massachusetts. She is currently an MFA candidate at Vermont College of Fine Arts and lives in Montpelier, Vermont. Her work has appeared in Thin Air, Crack the Spine, Pithead Chapel, and elsewhere.