by Jesse Breite

In morning, the Mississippi sky lanterns
slow on fields, lined by rows.
Light spears its bronzy shafts through
the crackling horizon,
down to the cane breaks and sweet gum,
the cypress trees stretching
strange muscles out of the earth-muck
while the clouds condense, emblazoned
with red-silver casings.
The air is damp, hot with human breath.

A single voice can be enough,
as it recapitulates—
heavy stones moved out of your chest,
sung out of a deep-caverned throat.

In the clearings when it comes
and then softly ends,
and they lay her down, they lay
her down. You will look at your hands
as they are tired and useless.
Only then will you know you loved her.

Jesse Breite’s recent poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Tar River Poetry, Chiron Review, and Prairie Schooner. He has been featured in Town Creek Poetry and The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume V: Georgia. FutureCycle Press published his first chapbook, The Knife Collector, in November 2013. Jesse lives with his wife, Emily, in Atlanta, Georgia.