Letter Home
(where, as just a tomboy, I was taught how shotguns load in the kitchen)
/sylvania,
I am alone without your cool morning breath
drifting onto my neck in the earlyearly when the oaks
speak softly to each other over damp streets
the city air doesn’t fill me like you do
but my /sylvania
you have to stop calling in the middle of the night
asking how close I keep my bible&bullets
don’t you know I left them
with your leaves shedding their threads
when the fall mist lays low shivering
barebones
Ree Sherwood holds an MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and reads for Carve magazine. Ree comes from Western Pennsylvania and wants to tell you all about it. Find more work in Painted Bride Quarterly, Lavender Review, and Rivet.