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     Anna Newman


There’s a mode of life

where you set things down


so hard

they immediately 


shatter. The leaves

move un-


orderly now as fall

yanks out summer 


from underneath,

time slipping


against itself.

This year I peeled


again myself

into choices 


that I don’t 

remember choosing:


a syringe in 

the weed tree,


a key counted

back to its separate


teeth, a mode 

of life where things


come back new

if you wish it 


hard enough.

In summer you were


nearly gone already.

I traced the thin line 


of impending grief 

up and down


my margins. I’ll

keep giving and 


giving until 

I’m past remolding 


my own shape,

feeling full up and


small enough to tuck

and fold into


a crease in

the narrative.


The sun is thin 

like broth tonight,


trying to illuminate

what tries just as hard


to stay unlit.


Anna Newman holds an M.F.A. in poetry from the University of Maryland. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Best New Poets, Rattle, Poetry Northwest, [PANK], and elsewhere. She lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.

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