Still in treatment, she was flipping pancakes before the rest of the group woke up, the batter hissing in the pan. The last of
low sun a smear of apricot jam I could lick off my thumb, porch boards warm beneath my shoe-loosed feet— how I could succumb
—after Emily Dickinson At the edge of a furrowed field, everything turning over beneath us, how it sways atop the tallest redwood without falling,