The brain, Aristotle ruled,
was a system meant to cool
the heart. Hot heart.
Unghost, the leftover residue across the surfaces of the sea, after a receding
wave or a skimming of the hands.
Gust smattered gobs of snow glommed to spruce
shingled white, then, through snow fume, a hint
of living green,
I found out I was pregnant during rock-climbing season. The weekend before the test showed positive, I was clinging to the stone faces that flank central Oregon’s Crooked River.
The teacher did not like the poem,
but seemed unable to say why, his face
seeping dismay or disgust.