Anna Crandall
To: E
Dear,
Out of the black dark of: coyotes yawping
their humanoid songs to the shine of the
paved-bright street-light city, your cries,
too, barren animal greed. My thistle-thorn,
my kismet, my moon-crescent fingernail
hanging suspended in my womb,
I need.
Write you letters on the day you were born.
Think like words can take this torn thing
and mend. Leaves falling into a rush of
water, fever-dream, time-lapse scream: I
keep little pain.
Just your first animal yelp and the way we
were strung together, wet laundry, flapping,
pinned to each other, sodden, the ropes in
my neck echo the cord. Sometimes, the
suffocation is too much. I close your door.
Breathe, match lit under my skin. I’m
holding you. Even in sleep, sound.
-Yours
Anna Crandall (she/her) is a writer and mother living in Portland, Oregon. She has previously taught in Oregon’s Department of Corrections and is currently a high school Language Arts teacher. Outside of her day job, she enjoys being outdoors, moving her body, and reading voraciously. You can find her on Instagram @teacupsandghosts.