When You Wanted to be an Archaeologist – Alexa Jane Wolff

You didn’t know the word—

just the gravity of dirt, her

pulse in small, round palms.


Your purpled nails on the ice;

we had come to pull the skin back

from motherearth. To mind her tendons,



You told me about isolation, how

you were alone by a tree – all around you

that mountain, her fire breath.
You were four.


We pulled the skin of a pomegranate back

her people gripping white to her chest.

We released her seeds in a wide, tin bowl,

&you told me you were sad by your firetree,


but it was ok.


We are far from her now/ dirt, nails, tin. We are here

to pull this wilted skin back, to salve old soils

simply because we have the hands and the eyes.


—and, you tell me         it’s ok. —it’s going to be.




Alexa Jane WolffAlexa Jane Wolff is a midwest poet, feminist, and strange creature with poetry forthcoming in Rust + Moth and Neologism. She is a fan of great loves, great talks, and great lakes.

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