by Brittney Corrigan

When all the news is bad or worse, my ears
ringing like a din of night insects—just swelter

and drone—I quiet my bones with the thought
of quaking aspen. Trembling Giant: grove

of thousands of trees, all with a single system
of roots. A million years old, bright fluttering

of gold against blue. And when I think I can’t
take in another sorrow—each a stone stacked

up like a cairn on my heart—I remember how
the jaws of a snake unhinge. Its mouth opens

and opens to enfold what’s impossibly large,
patient swallowing followed by a length

of rest. And when what we’ve done can’t be
undone, hope just a speck on the future’s

woolly back, I jumpstart my wonder with this:
the snow in Antarctica is sprinkled with the dust

of ancient stars. While we hunted and gathered,
the galaxy glittered and lay itself down in our light.

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Brittney Corrigan’s poetry collections include Breaking, Navigation, and 40 Weeks. Daughters, a series of persona poems in the voices of daughters of various characters from folklore, mythology, and popular culture, is forthcoming from Airlie Press in September 2021. Brittney was raised in Colorado and lives in Portland, Oregon, where she is an alumna and employee of Reed College. She is currently at work on her first short story collection. For more information, visit brittneycorrigan.com.