Three Poems

Osip after Siberia

Because all shovels on the permafrost snapped,
even Earth refused the in-transit dead—

the mad, the sick, the lice in December: how they pulsed

like planets on a few lucky blankets
in our long-damaged cosmos, the promises of words.
This is a premium subscription story. Please make a $4 donation to access the individual story or a donation to access all the stories in Spring 2014 for a period of one year.

If you are already a user, but not yet logged in, you may login here.
If you are new to Narrative, signing up is FREE and easy.