And I was only half in this life, withered beneath the stink
of sour milk mop, legs like paperclips unwound then bound
into sculpture: a brass tree rooted to the kitchen table, branched hands
arced beyond a milk saucer skyline bent of plaster. But the truth is,
had you been next to me all along, I'd have stretched green and peach plum pear
beautiful, round hayfield, and moon-drenched lovely for you.
I'd be the keeper of the dew and kick down the frost.
Alyssa Jewell studies poetry at Western Michigan University where she served as assistant editor for New Issues Poetry and Prose and is currently an assistant poetry editor for Third Coast. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Earth Review, Fifth Wednesday, The Columbia Review, and Cactus Heart. She lives and teaches in Grand Rapids.