The lady pitching a tent by our apple fields turned out to be the one who was almost your mother. I sensed somehow that there wasn’t yet a mold for which this particular news should reach you so I gathered a few cotton swabs and packed your ears, so soft. I wondered as I began to whisper (biology, abandon) whether you knew yet that your body interrupts things, that is to say, to have a frame is in part devastation. I have watch you with our group of fat chickens, pastel arm finding saddle with meticulous kindness. The limb, the fowl, the glut.
Which part of this have you considered yours, and how long.
Jordana Solomon is a lover of lemons. Originally from a small town on the Hudson River, she currently studies at Middlebury College and has previously attended The Breadloaf Writers’ Conference as well as interned at the Poets House in New York City.