Poetry: “Forests sleep through storms,” by Jay Grummel

They say the throat is scornful
holding onto soft, slow blurs of wavering crows
with wings of mud and beaks cool as rock, weighing
their lust. Will it bruise you, when nothing is left moral?
In these unknown times, the lilacs sing
songs of wishful renewal.
I’ve found belief in stars
whose hands bite their own mouths
with anger perking our rabbit-ears.
This was our ruin, tongues dressed in cigar.
The ashes breathe leather teeth,
cracking the roots of snow.
Do you remember the sanctuary?
Hummingbirds danced to our company,
ivies sprung to life, grew through heaven’s thighs.
What an odd way memories betray us. Mother
always did whisper, never
kiss the sharp-eyed dogs.

Jay Grummel is a poet from Toledo, Ohio who earned their BFA in Creative Writing from Bowling Green State University. Their work appears or is forthcoming in Slab, Polaris, Sink Hollow, and elsewhere. Jay’s writing can also be seen on stage through their work as a librettist.