Laura Van Prooyen (bio)

For a week I open
the blinds to the tree
and the blue, to the blue behind it.

Should be that this tree is a river,
the pull taking in
whatever will fall,

the bridge that buckles
and disconnects shores, the rocks
dislodged that skid down the bank,

the girls gone out and soon
gone under, the mother who reaches
one, not the other.

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