Elizabeth York Dickinson
I settle in
graves more
than groves.
Earth is filled with
the corpses of each
silent leaving,
not the song of a thrush.
Want births the
piecing together sockets
of steadfast bone, pasting
the flaking flesh
I still want to claim.
Spirit clings to the
possible coming from
another death.
Dusting remains of a hand.
His blooming
embrace, the scent of
laden leaf piles
wind continually holds.
***
Elizabeth York Dickinson received her MFA in writing from Sarah Lawrence College. Her poetry and photography have appeared in Gravel, Foliate Oak, Royal Rose, Ghost City Press, Riggwelter and Ink in Thirds, among others. She currently resides in Evanston, Illinois.