A strong wind blows away everything that isn’t staked down, and now I find that I have lost my garlic eyes, my mushroom ears, my basil hair. Maybe it was an illusion—we were Theseus’ ship, or Lincoln’s axe. I am aware that we consisted of unlike components, which were tethered together precariously by longings and fixations, and also by a certain kind of love. Colors shift as we delete each shade of gray. Next to go: this cauliflower cheek.
Kathleen S. Johnston writes, teaches, and translates in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. She received her MFA from the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities in 2013. You can find her most recent poems in CutBank and White Stag.