Elizabeth Joy Levinson
Domicile

I'm feeling how the prairie
might have moved beneath me,
grasses with roots that grew deep
into the earth, so they could withstand
the often fire and
long winter.

What tender blades broke beneath these bricks?
Some days a home feels like less than that.

When I reach my hands into the soil,
to feel its sickness, shards of glass and rusted nails,
what grows here now, in these small carved out spaces,
between the homes and the roads,
it isn't from here, it dies a little each year,
needs the constant reseeding,
needs constant, constantly.

<< return to the Table of Contents for New Series #6: Winter 2018, Volume 3 Number 2