Poem for Sasha Steensen
Joshua Marie Wilkinson

Cotton Mather standing under

where

 

the owls fall through

 

paroxysm & a barnful

of your work waiting askance

 

for your flashlight,

Gordon’s (my favorite) face

& what

 

will your daughter haunt of

these archives?

 

night finally, one of just

poems & cigarettes & porch drinking

& there’s no more Vegas or

gradesheets

 

just Oriana’s hilarious yawns & we’re

filed down, fled back.