Letter Home
(where, as just a tomboy, I was taught how shotguns load in the kitchen)
/sylvania, I am alone without your cool morning breath drifting onto my neck in the earlyearly when the oaks
speak softly to each other over damp streets the city air doesn’t fill me like you do
but my /sylvania
you have to stop calling in the middle of the night asking how close I keep my bible&bullets
don’t you know I left them with your leaves shedding their threads
when the fall mist lays low shivering barebones
Ree Sherwood holds an MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and reads for Carve magazine. Ree comes from Western Pennsylvania and wants to tell you all about it. Find more work in Painted Bride Quarterly, Lavender Review, and Rivet.