Thick. Dark. A heft,
reminiscent of
foliage and rough trunks.
The cult yet to save you,
the dead scent rising
from the Earth after a storm.
The dreamer, low-toned,
against the whorled bone
of a nonbeliever’s ear:
if only, if
only.

Abigail Kirby Conklin

 

Abigail Kirby Conklin lives in New York City, where she works in education and curriculum development. Her poetry can be found in The Lampeter Review (2017), Flumes Literary Journal (2017), and the forthcoming issues of K’in Literary Journal (2018) and Curlew Quarterly (2018). She drinks startling amounts of coffee.

© 2018