I hear the things the star falls through, the star that lives. Some alphabet ended
and the star just kept falling. I stopped suggesting heaven since it is
private, a purple I could touch, touch would mean nothing, or something everyone
couldn’t see. Letters burn and blacken against falling star, my shadow feels with them, the shadows between the letters crackle and even a heaven is listening.
I don’t know how many darknesses
are left, or how much of the pain is
gone, considered mystery or
other, against the morning snow.
I thought soul or words would save
me but I forgot about the snow, how a
silence falls after it, even in the heard
glitter of sun, even in the day after. The
crystals try to erase night from them-
selves but fail, I try to touch
a hand like doubt and
forgiveness inside many unseens, some-
thing like light hides it. When I
was word I was weight, now
I am what does not happen, except
upon snow or breath,
confessor or transfiguration, or
the pain that remains. The sky
stretched with life yields a clear
topaz face, a year. O I, lost
beyond hush, beyond what
follows past the church window,
the gas station, the
faith and the snow, the fields
that say blue.
About Lindsey Warren
Lindsey Warren is a graduate of Cornell University’s MFA program. She has been published in Rabid Oak, Josephine Quarterly, American Literary Review and Hobart, among others. Lindsey has been a finalist for the Delaware Literary Connection Prize and the Joy Harjo Prize.