When she wakes, rigid

January 17, 2017

Stroke her hair, and rock.

Open the curtain—show her the flashing,
the bright erasures of light, the careening trees,
that suffocation, apocalypse, another plummet
down the stairs into another
tunnel, another muscled abandonment,
bursting into the world again,
her fists tight against her face.

And when you say,
That’s thunder
It’s a loud noise

believe the world is not so scary when it’s named.
Believe that she is armed now
against that vertigo
and she won’t need you, looking down
at her own child’s eyes, black with fear,
or her mother’s body in a box,
or her own hands, aged and empty.

Elizabeth Cranford Garcia

Elizabeth Cranford Garcia’s work has appeared in publications such as Boxcar Poetry Review, 491 Magazine, Yellow Chair Review, Dialogue: a Journal of Mormon Thought, Autumn Sky Review, Irreantum, and Penwood Review, as well as two anthologies, Stone, River, Sky: An Anthology of Georgia Poems, and Fire in the Pasture: 21st Century Mormon Poets. She currently serves as Poetry Editor for Segullah Literary Journal, and is a past editor of The Reach of Song, the anthology for the Georgia Poetry Society. Her first chapbook, Stunt Double, is now available through Finishing Line Press. She spends most of her time being mommy to two toddlers and binge-watching Netflix with her husband in Acworth, Georgia.

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