Amy Ross
Enter the conversation. Eat almonds
in the morning. And at night,

and at noon, bitter. There is something to
be said

for wearing another's hands. For example--
dead one to dead one-- waking.

Ask Paul Celan how it goes.
He's out there, standing on the edge

of an echo. It's no coincidence, year after year,
how the brilliant leaves turn-in

against themselves. Watch what kicks up
under your feet. Watch the blue sky's almonding.


Whose hands are these? Whose lungs,
lungs and lips? Whose intestines stretched

around the day? Ask Paul Celan,
swoop down on your God

imagined language. Luck is a rag
caught in the branches, a scrap of human warmth.

Lucky is the one who never
believes: the wound-wooed disciple,

the wind in the trees.

Amy Jo Ross lives and works in Washington, DC. Her poems have appeared in Poet Lore, Visions International, Potomac Review and Winners: A Retrospective of the Washington Prize.



In Posse: Potentially, might be ...