hunger spills like bare light—
too thin to cup between our hands.
one palm, two palms

opening up the darkness. we know
where to make our hinges,
how to fold our thirst

along its seam. across hickory
boards laid down without leaves
we reach for nuts, the last of the apples

and bowls to fill. with rain
slicking the windows like braided rivers,
we lace our fingers,

bow our heads
in prayer. our knuckles are locked together,
tightening as only fists might do.

Lorrie Ness is a poet writing in a rural corner of Virginia. When she’s not writing, she can be found stomping through the woods, watching birds and playing in the dirt. Her work can be found in numerous journals, including Palette Poetry and Sky Island Journal. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021 and her chapbook Anatomy of a Wound was published by Flowstone Press in July of 2021.

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