Jennifer Schomburg Kanke
DREAM, BODY, DREAM
All my memories begin after two deaths,
after my mother cleaned up the remnants
of the dark and dirty house.
***
My parents were as temperate as a winter’s sun
beating through a cloudless sky on an empty field:
all of the burn, none of the heat, all of the chaff,
none of the wheat.
***
I don’t know what I survived,
but my body remembers—
no—relives—no, is living.