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Can’t talk about Vermont
without fog. Fits. Beneath me,

               he used only fingers. I imagine myself
               a crocus. How           did it happen?

The arrival of a roughness I’ll be honest
I wished for until—.

                              Mouth covered. Yanked
                              body, body pulled around. Boy

               under my windowsill, I was still
               broken when I came.      I don’t need you

to tell me it’s hard for you to picture.
What to do when you can’t

               remember the bruise’s origin? I end up
               sorry for anything        I don’t know

                              where the fault lies. Door busted in,
                              him still inside me after

circular talk of mountains. What
to do with that? Get real

               anxious, piss on leaves I can
               imagine being dragged over

                              because I was. Say one day
                              bled into the next because

it did. Or did it happen?
Smoke the loop quiet,      choose

               words carefully. Bled because
               it happened that way.






Anna Meister is an MFA candidate in Poetry at NYU, where she serves as a Goldwater Writing Fellow. A Pushcart Prize & Best of the Net nominee, her poems are forthcoming in Whiskey Island, Barrow Street, Souvenir, The Adroit Journal, & elsewhere. Anna is a 2015 Saltonstall Foundation for the Arts fellow. She lives & works in Brooklyn.