Under hand, fence links shatter
tetanus sparks. This is not your first time
breaking into the partitioned parts
of your past, or dipping fingers into water
‘til they blue and stop aching.
This is not the first time you’ve imagined flying,
car and body into murk. Curse
crickets playing symphonies. Curse
your brother. This is not your first time
watching oil bubble rainbows to the surface,
until night swallows everything.
Liz N. Clift's poetry has appeared in Hunger Mountain, Third Wednesday, White Whale Review, and other literary journals. She lives in southern Oregon.