by Jayne Marek

How quickly it transits,
an arc of ice tightening
from west to east.

A rock
thrown into black water
shivers into the deep, empty belly,

carrying light down with it.
The full moon
steps from overcast into the cold

of January. Her feet trail
a dingy scarf, the shadow
of earth, a planet

tasting the beauty of another.
Winter is a cascade
of hungers,

wolves at the edge
of the woods, slipping like a tongue
between ribs.

Jayne Marek’s poems and photos appear in One, QWERTY, Grub Street, Cortland Review, The Lake, Spillway, Women’s Studies Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, and elsewhere. Her recent books include In and Out of Rough Water (2017) and The Tree Surgeon Dreams of Bowling (2018). Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, she won the Bill Holm Witness poetry prize and was a finalist in contests for Naugatuck River Review, Joy Bale Boone, Yemassee, and Up North Lit.