birds scream across the sky like an emergency in another life I was a transmission pole— I was energy; the blade slicing a flooding sky into wet slices—I was something here I am aging like tomorrow is a dream. here I am trying to see appreciation as both the phantom pain and the initial severing removed from any damage I am wind— not always cautious, but always press an ear to an apple tree you cannot hear the fruit growing— all you hear is the tree dying to be a god is to name small violences as necessary fingers on an unabridged body— to be a god is to define suffering as human to be human is to wait for a tender ending
William Bortz (he/him) is a husband, poet, and editor living in Des Moines, IA. His work appears in Okay Donkey, Empty Mirror, Back Patio Press, and others. His book of poems THE GRIEF WE’RE GIVEN will be published February 2021 from Central Avenue.