By Cynthia Cruz
The child is not dead.
She is sleeping.
Gone from this world
Which is broken.
The angel of Michael
Outside the garden
His circle of fire
Maddening around the tree.
He put the word
Back into her:
A heavy kind of music.
Then she was free.
As we all are.
All night I stood in the icy wind,
Praying for the storm to destroy me.
But the wind blew through me
Like I was a hologram.
If you say I am a mystic,
Then fine: I’m a mystic.
The trees are not trees, anyway.
Source: Poetry (October 2015)
Born in Germany, Cynthia Cruz grew up in northern California, where she earned her BA at Mills College, her MFA in Creative Writing at Sarah Lawrence College, and her MFA in Art Writing & Criticism at the School of Visual Arts. She and has published essays, interviews, book and art reviews in the LA Review of Books, Hyperallergic, Guernica, The American Poetry Review, and The Rumpus. She lives in Brooklyn.
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