It begins here: from
the ground up, feet first,
following. Muscle,
bone and breath, sight-soft
hunger. Girl. She rubs
grass bare to dirt while
orbiting the river.
Each loop—from glacial
till to paved path, over
ruts, past gullies
seeps and steep slopes—gives
substance, tightens the
tether, but never
enough to stop her
looping. Ghost. Lodged deep
within, passed down from
unknown ancestors.
Scrambled code in the
back of each eye that
started shifts from sharp
to soft so slow they
would go unnoticed
until lines dissolved,
letters blurred, ground gave
way, and a gap grew
between girl and world.
The girl travels where
past feet tread, adding
lines to poems begun
before her mother was
born and grew up just
four miles east as the
crow flies across the
river, before her
grandfather helped build
stone walls still standing
nearby, and before
this land was stolen
to start two cities.
She settles into
a rhythm, counting
foot strikes then chanting
small prayers. Beating out
meaning until what’s
left are syllables,
then sounds, then something
new, or old, returned.
She breaks open and
changes shape. Ghost in-
to girl into ghost
into girl into
Gorge. Formed when water
wore down stone on its
way up river. Four
feet of land lost each
year, replaced with space.
Never empty but
open, holding it
all—here there now then
girl ghost water stone—
together.