You don't notice

Laura Walker

in the aftermath of some destructive force
the way the violet-blue clusters of buds bob
and weave on the end of their slender stems,
touched by an invisible breeze you can’t feel. 

You don’t care about
cloud-shadows chasing across mountainsides,
or how the shafts of sunlight spear the sky
just so. You are horizonless 

And you can’t hear
over the cracking apart of your own reality, either
morning birdsong or settling into nests at dusk. 

It is always dusk.
You live underwater now, buried in tsunami,
senses muffled by the drowning sea
in a way that is almost comfort, almost peace, 

where all you can hear is the swirl of sea-foam
in your ears and far off, the clatter-howl of a new
storm you wish you could throw yourself into.

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Laura Walker holds an MFA from Northern Arizona University, where she was editor-in-chief for Thin Air Magazine. She writes both poetry and fiction and teaches writing classes at Southern Utah University in Cedar City. A native of Southern California (by way of Flagstaff, AZ), she always finds herself wishing for a little more snow and a little less sun. Laura has fiction featured in "Black Works" from Underwood Press.