Today I saw a translucent girl large as the largest oak
you’ve ever seen, her body one with the mountains, &
from her chest, a fire. You must have seen her too, for
when I told you she was burning, she is burning too brightly
& the whole of the landscape she holds will ashen the sky
for a thousand days, as it’s done before, you said, My Jenn,
she is fire, & there is a difference. There were birds, too,
Alicia. Have I told you about the birds? The branches shine
with wings, as a Christmas tree with ornaments, these small
& single wings. The birds in her dress are bandaged. & when
I screamed, Alicia, when I turned my face in horror, for
I thought she was tearing the wings from the birds to decorate
her large oak body, the largest oak you have ever seen, you said,
My Jenn, she is taking her burning heart, her wound, & healing
the wounded birds so they can fly. Maybe the wings
she has made herself & keeps at the ready. Then you stretched
yourself into the sky & peeled a pair for me. It had been so long.
Though I can’t be sure you were there, I am sure.
Because, Alicia, again, I fly.
–
Jennifer Givhan is a Mexican-American poet who has received NEA and PEN/Rosenthal Emerging Voices fellowships. She’s been published in The New Republic, The Nation, Salon, and POETRY. The author of four collections of poetry and the novels TRINITY SIGHT and JUBILEE, she lives with her family in New Mexico.