Translated by Marilyn McCabe I will lean so hard into life, grab so rough and tight that before the soft day ravishes me I’ll
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,