by Gwen Wille

We all went up, way up where
Georgia once lay, where clouds
were more bone
than air, and red cliffs
(so red)
were wombs, warm
as the heart of the woods.

Only higher now: Pedernal, the citadel. And all
those roses, lilies, white trumpets
looked like sages in the dry
April noontime.

We all knew it, that act. To name
something is to give it purpose,
but there was only red
(such red)
like pigment on pale flesh, dye
thickened by yoke and white wind,
and summer was still
miles away.

Gwen Wille lives and works in West Chester, PA. She studied writing at the University of New Mexico. Her work has appeared in Philadelphia Stories, the second Best of Philadelphia Stories Anthology, and Divine Dirt Quarterly, and is forthcoming in Writers’ Bloc.

Back to Issue Seven: Spring 2010