AMY LEIGH WICKS
The Spirit picked him up and dropped him off at the foot
Of a dark mountain. It doesn’t say if he wore shoes but
Soldiers so dead even the rot was picked clean from their bones.
Ezekiel. A man alone in the valley talking to the dead dead dead.
Tendons bloomed flowers on bone, and mossy flesh muted the sounds.
One heart gulped and then another, the valley a chorus of drums
Lately, I say get off my kitchen bench. And I spray them with Ajax
Through a crack in the window and touch me until I am gasping — alive
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amy Leigh Wicks is living in the beginning of a love story that is more dramatic than anything she writes about. This year she moved to Wellington from New York City with her husband to begin her PhD in Poetry at IIML. She is the author of Orange Juice and Rooftops. and some recent work can be found on The Best American Poetry blog and DrDoctor’s Podcast series. She likes motorcycles, outdoor feasts with chandeliers and not knowing how the story ends.