Amy Jo Trier-Walker: Special Feature
We came down like felled light
We fill our kitchens with burned
waves on the slip-down
to become welcome without hurting ourselves
suicide-wind-swinging jump on
our names too full
but in this ourselves watching us outside
from the cabinets
I smile a childhood into being
Do not use the green wall—last night walked in me and I did not know I existed
So I threw the river for the spirit of the street. Where you drew an animal
out of your eyes—you remain on the bench. Leaves rose
the city theme a pigeon where I wouldn’t wouldn’t kiss you remember anythibut I did anyways.
we were then swinging on on our way home fed them some donuts swing set trying to synchronize
let me show you how to be little baby in the river where scarecrows to float too.
to rush in the way of these child
plans to flood tomorrow
not here hold
(a chicken gets nervous all by yourself back there so far away from the house
she swallowed cactus. Yes. If you cut down a tree, its roots grow stranger. haunted, they say, no one and looked. It tells the ground into stopping sifting for into dusk
and feet remedies are Others are sirening.
uneven healing rolling spun throat
and sore river
heard the care bitter for a wet moth
all six eyes red means healing
what pears mean in silver
and she’ll take it into her, now won’t she
Editor's Note: These poems originally appeared on our old site.
Amy Jo Trier-Walker is a tree and herb farmer in Indiana and the author of Trembling Ourselves into Trees (Horse Less Press 2015). Recent work can also be found in Forklift, Ohio, Handsome, Ghost Ocean, Word For/Word, and inter|rupture, among others, and she is the Poetry and Art Editor at Black Tongue Review.