I’m not talking about death anymore, about the stones you wrap with string and attach all over my body. there are trees planted along the perimeter of this prairie trail. if I pulled one up, you’d think I snapped a thin branch off a sapling and wonder why I’d do that. why would I do that? I’m looking to make small changes so I might live forever. I need to take a second, here. you can see this in me – how did it happen? they found his body covered in the feathers of a macaw. what feathers would I have gathered if it were me? and would I ever have such foresight? my therapist asked me if you had noticed anything unusual. I didn’t know, of course, but I spoke of a lily’s bloom and a vision of Jesus with his hand half in my mouth – thumb and forefinger on a tooth –he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

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Eric Huff (he/him) is a poet and public-school teacher living and working in the west metro area of the Twin Cities. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as 1913: A Journal of Forms, The Muleskinner Journal, HALSEY Literary Reader, Rockvale Review, After/Thought, Molecule: A Tiny Lit Mag, Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, and Luna Luna among others.