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From Melissa Goodrich’s chapbook IF YOU WHAT

IF I

The slots in the sky are birdcages, or

She tells me that birds perched black roses, birds perched on powerlines,

Birds legs electricity jolts through easy as rivers. She says when coyotes.

She says what are we doing under this tree, where are the feathers.

Her mind is an unlocked.

Her mind a cursive ‘l,’ her mouth a cursive.

When coyotes almost die crawl across the river (empty as a bed but why). She says

Dress the windows in. She says it is very.

And I lean. I am not sure where she’ll land or

Land is uncertain because sometimes the ocean it gobbles and sometimes

The land, it’s short. She says If I.

I nod. If you what.

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 An MFA candidate at the University of Arizona, Melissa Goodrich writes, teaches, and sips lemonade in the heady heart of Tucson.  Her poems have received the Academy of American Poets Prize, the University of Arizona Foundation Award, and the Juliet Gibson Memorial Award.  She also writes fiction.  Go figure.