I fell.
nothing happened.
the pines still hoarded
snow’s white knives. lightning came.
thunder woke the horses
from their dreams of astronomy
and burned pastures. swans
dipped their black question marks
into the black river.
I fell
and nothing happened. I dug a well.
swam two miles. swabbed my makeup.
went to bed. I was young
and still had time to pray.
sometimes
I was the cross
crows form in the sky.
sometimes I was the sky.
Jackson Holbert is originally from eastern Washington and now lives in Waltham, Massachusetts. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vinyl, Muzzle, Minnesota Review, and Whiskey Island, among others. He edits poetry for The Adroit Journal.
