Not Here, Exactly

by Joanna Fuhrman

Joanna Fuhrman

I found your letter
in the pocket

of a borrowed goat.

It showed me
the way—

small as an eye.

One mountain tried
to taste another,

then spit it out.

Your letter called
all the other letters


You too were
my friend,

soft as a melting
or melted nail.

Dear little cage,
dark plum.

The Year of Yellow Butterflies

Last updated November 24, 2022