by Loisa Fenichell

There has been little recently in the way of myself. The body manifested by a loneliness that predicates my questions. My queries release themselves unanswered. But textured, like the icy fog hanging in dense form above this earth. It’s the desire I have to wane, to disappear into the dusted-over horizon like a peck of icing. In the hospital I missed the deer the most. How they trampled with the ease of hydration over the grasses. I loved those who came and went, dis- and reappeared with the fainter hues of the grasses. Say that was what got me there, to that strange place of low lights and no valleys. That I survived on cinnamon for the length of a winter. Took in the ocean, breaking apart like bone, come spring.

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Loisa Fenichell's work—poetry and a review of Alexandria Hall's Field Music—has been featured or is forthcoming in various publications, such as Winter Tangerine Review, As It Ought To Be Magazine, Voicemail Poems, Sundog Lit, Poetry Northwest, Guernica Magazine, and DIALOGIST. Her debut collection, all these urban fields, was published by nothing to say press. She is an MFA Candidate at Saint Mary's College of California.