I was blown to be bent
before I was aware my hair had hushed
the dry lips of the prairie, was
standing straight as an early slaked
spine of corn
before I believed the drench of my tress
was dew, not mist. I do not miss you.
I misuse the word salvage even still, as though
it is an act of grace and not of payment. Amazing
after all I am here breathing air after believing I was
drowned. Can they prove the sin? Did I keep so much?
Antediluvian: I kept what the prairie kept, which is to say
all. Salvage: that which cannot happen without wreck.
Recompense: Thank You for the Storm!
This is a reprint of work originally published in SOFTBLOW.
Candice Wuehle is a Master’s Candidate at the University of Minnesota currently pursing a degree in literature. She hails from a variety of Middle Western towns, but mostly Iowa City, Iowa, where she has studied at the Writer’s Workshop (summer sessions). Her work has appeared in The Honeyland Review and EARTHWORDS and is forthcoming in Gigantic Sequins.
