Kristen Orser
how clear
breath becomes
	in days leading to rain

clouds gathering
like thoughts

enough to make us shout

into a moonless night
			with air like water
to drown
echoes

of our assumptions

	though something in the back of our head persists

to cut open what has already healed
and see if it will reheal

like our first hurt

the one in the rib
that kept us quiet

		with the madness of obedience