In the front yard, the pond folded
into itself, a mouth closing. Small
fish, gasping, strewn like a pocketful
of silver across the scrubbed lawn. 

I held the edges of the yard in each
fist, shook it hard, lifting and letting
it fall like a sheet, my ribs cracking
under the sod weight of it. Water

spread, fingering among jutting
rocks, turning serpentine, seeking
travel. In the cool clasp of water,
reborn in the river, the pleasure

of breath gasps, the glass- domed
sky. Houses tilted and sank in, plates
floating as the tea cups sank. A turtle
in murk water, watching, waiting,

and I studied that kind of acceptance
among the ferns and cracked flowerpots. 
The mosaic of dirt and roots entering
as the sky bled, I saw the waves 

returning to the shore, saw how to
breathe in the slice of moment under
each wave. I thought how much I loved
the paper of your skin as the sun
burned through, set us on fire.


Susan Moorhead's poetry and stories have appeared in print and online journals and anthologies including JMWW, Lowestoft Chronicle, Anderbo, and Crab Creek Review. Nominated three times for a Pushcart prize, recent work includes a short story in Breadcrumbs, and a poetry chapbook, The Night Ghost, with Finishing Line Press.