Rachel Ann Russell

I can’t write this poem I can’t take my fear of what hasn’t happened And name it....

It was a one-man show, that wild man dunking each man, woman, and child into the river with a blessing, which by the time it was our turn was brown with mud...

That day gold inside me creating new eyes amazed by the beauty of red tulips, the skin of a baby, that stranger’s work boots creased with glorious effort...

In the quiet of the stone tomb, Knitting himself back together Eyes, hands, heart, lungs Was healing like a nap? Did it hurt? To come from...