A growing forgetfulness.
A pocket for the land
to slip leftovers in.
A mute button made of vines.
A net made to conceal battalions.
A weed made of words.
A secret written in a green pen
on a green page
in a book of green stories.
Furnished with fern
tendrils, tender.
The self when it
unspools, rewinds
takes over,
is not kind.
This poem first appeared in About Place Journal: The More than Human World (2023).
—
Sarah Ann Winn’s first book, Alma Almanac won the Barrow Street Book Prize, judged by Elaine Equi. She is also the author of five chapbooks, most recently, Ever After the End Matter. Her writing has appeared in Five Points, Massachusetts Review, Nashville Review, Quarterly West, Smartish Pace, and elsewhere. She’s the founder of Poet Camp, a creative community where she leads online classes, jumpstarts and cozy writing retreats. Find her at http://poetcamp.com.
