I saw myself in this one young woman in the foreground
With a look of desolation and a body that looked pregnant
As she leaned against the moss covered rocks off to the side
Apart from all the people celebrating midsummer

I knew her person was gone just like me
And just like me she looked across at the fires from far away
And wanted something in their light to say:
“Live your life, and if you don’t
The ground is definitely ready at any moment to open up again
To swallow you back in
To digest you back into something useful for somebody”
Meanwhile above all these Norwegians dancing in the twilight
The permanent white snow gleamed
You used to call me “Neige Éternelle”

Ray Osborn

Mercy Seat

In Memory of Alice Alsup, 1990-2014

Her heart was paired with
a strained will, itself itself,

looking for bits of water.

Her heart rang blooms

from witted country dust.
Born, Texas, from scoria
of course, no more

than flower-trash found

wilting in the void.

Totaled in absolution.

Those deep roots alone
might stand all lonesome,

swimmingly, across

some plank-skied wharf
that has never sought
anything but daydreams,

pressed bulbs, full of sea.

Dry it rams in streamings
through Texas, now brined

and sickened, flank of water.

–It is mimed –You, mine.