This Now
The dog snores.
The coffee colds.
The heat whirs.
Pope Joan
Hestia
Sappho and
Marguerite Porete
await my attention.
The journal pulses.
Death is open-mouthed
swallowing another
body into its belly
depth, darkness:
the hold before
a new birthing
untangles into the
light. Grief is a
grotto we slink
into – weep, laugh
sigh, sleep. Our
flushed cheeks
press against
seashell
walls.
VANESSA SHIELDS 