ISSUE 11

i have had one concise thought
since january. this is not it. 

​

nightly i work up the nerve
to feed myself to the woods,
wilder,

​

(as long as the leash allows).
i wish my grip 
was one that held. 

​

i press for the sake
of feeling my self tense
against it. 

​

crows scatter like ashes,
noiseless in that diminishing
taxonomy. let me name you

​

American or Fish—
i offer you, in my clamshell hands,
syllables i have licked clean. 

​

it has been night too long.
i must do the work
of resetting. presumably, i walk homeward. 

​

my father tells me our town does not exist.
the ship of theseus, he says, is no ark. 

​

the lights left on
fluoresce, north star yet to be
acquisitioned in the sharp-shinned dark. 

Shana Blatt is a Connecticut-based copywriter by day. Their poems have previously appeared in Gandy Dancer and High Shelf Press. You can find her on Instagram @semitrash