QUARRY

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.