She’s fog thickening across a prairie
in early March. Residue of the last
shoulder season in muted gold
and rust catches her on alls sides.

She’s full-bleed
escaping from the edge
of another backstory she inherited
about them—doesn’t trust.

She’s fever dreaming
her way into theirs.

She’s filing away images
in a drawer made of ice.
She’s fall down sober
building a birch forest

with reams of peeled paper
bark found stacked
in the flooded wine cellar
(inheritance suspect).

She’s feigning interest
in overnight snow. Fast-talking
the morning away
to get to them first.

Freight train rolling
across the tracks hidden
on albums recorded
under a leaky roof.

She’s fire engine not
red furious with herself
for never learning why
they refuse to leave.

She’s freehand sketching
mist into the picture
further more than farther
from the truth

trail between the acts
of barred owls before dawn.

She’s fracture zone fragile
beneath that concrete skin.
Floor sprung leaping off bluffs
into the scene where she’s phoenix

rising from the ashes
of all those stories
about the unrequited she’s
forgotten. She’s (so) free by now.