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    If a historic drought can’t get us to talk
    about the taste of salt water,
    the freedom to have a suntan,
    I’d rather be a hard rock
    than open my mouth.

    I was terrified they’d be tired after
    letting me leave the trees,
    turn over the fresh pages
    of notation, these leaves, a choreography for a job.

    Instead, they spent the time reasoning
    how a hand knots itself, how the sky holds
    its heart intact, the sound
    of the syllable god.

    They’d rather be home, but it
    reminds me of a heavy tiredness
    and forgetting to have clean clothes, this
    sense of the wonderful and I am
    leaving all of them behind.

    This all depends on their travelling, travelling,
    travelling and not looking through me.
    I am afraid I would miss them.

    If I am the problem then I like it,
    walking barefoot on a tender path
    and falling asleep in the uncensored moment.

    This is how you come back to see—
    now, gods, stand up
    and wring your two hands together
    and Oh, just say to them, remember how to write a poem.

     

    Kendra Bartell is currently an MFA candidate at UW Seattle. She received her BA from Cornell University and was awarded the Robert H. Chasen Memorial Award for Poetry in the Spring of 2012. Her poems have appeared in Mare Nostrum, Utter, So to Speak, Timber Journal, and elsewhere. 

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