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harvest moon

gift me patience / enough to shut my mouth in front of flames / to rest my palms on the earth without digging / I grew up too close to the fire / too quick to make myself the smoke that rises / mesmerized by holes left behind & all the violet re-coverings / teach me to see this season as more than a reaping / I was never good at finding nourishment / show me how to grow roots / how to lean against the trellis / how to relax with my hair in someone else’s hands / let me relish my body / its weight / I want power that isn’t power-over / to meet my own gaze when I catch it accidentally in a window / to hold stones in my hands without clutching / to meet my nightterrors with words & not blades / make me root / make me ember / keep me warm & unafraid

Karah Kemmerly is a queer writer who grew up in northern California and received an M.F.A. in poetry at Oregon State University. Her work has been published in THE BOILERRoanoke ReviewBreakwater Review, and Redivider. She currently lives and teaches in Portland, Oregon. 

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