Mackenzie Kozak
once formed
he wakes to a forest says yes
a river is lonely says you are
lonely are you a river
says when the sun warms me i am
warm warmed
and the mouth like a wrinkle
that bends and bends
when arms falling to the ground
clatter
trilling he says tilling the earth
picking apples holding
the stray hands of ferns
she wanders and upends
the dew loses her memory
of moving startled her limbs
a green tree lake with its tents
she sees all of it
he no longer large without
her for the first time touches
leaves thinks of gravel umbrellas
extravagantly fall very clear pebble
jade hat each sprig is a stain
bulbed white flowers
when they go out will there
be a sign what will they
see the maker on a roof
waves them on
umbrella magnolia perhaps
in a forest where i began
beginning to breathe
don’t you remember the sky
before it was a word when it was
just a flourish
departure
again they enter the garden
for the first time which is
the last time
he carries a bent shovel
she carries a crown of ivy
they dig each other’s graves
to bury themselves but then
they chew each leaf and flower
they tear roots drag goats by their hooves
people say from somewhere across
the generations why do this?
how could they live elsewhere
knowing their home lay here
perfect and immense fruit plump
pinched blooms field of grazing animals
how could they lie in their beds
at night pretending to touch
or reach into a gutted sky
when the leaves sway here
in vivid orange
when a tree that is not a house
is not silent when the maker
imagines his hands
Mackenzie Kozak holds a BA from Wake Forest University and an MFA from UNC-Greensboro. She lives in Asheville, NC where she admires mountains and grocery stores. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Boston Review, Cosmonauts Avenue, jubilat, Prelude, and Sixth Finch. Find her online at mackenziekozak.com
Return to September 2017 Edition
he wakes to a forest says yes
a river is lonely says you are
lonely are you a river
says when the sun warms me i am
warm warmed
and the mouth like a wrinkle
that bends and bends
when arms falling to the ground
clatter
trilling he says tilling the earth
picking apples holding
the stray hands of ferns
she wanders and upends
the dew loses her memory
of moving startled her limbs
a green tree lake with its tents
she sees all of it
he no longer large without
her for the first time touches
leaves thinks of gravel umbrellas
extravagantly fall very clear pebble
jade hat each sprig is a stain
bulbed white flowers
when they go out will there
be a sign what will they
see the maker on a roof
waves them on
umbrella magnolia perhaps
in a forest where i began
beginning to breathe
don’t you remember the sky
before it was a word when it was
just a flourish
departure
again they enter the garden
for the first time which is
the last time
he carries a bent shovel
she carries a crown of ivy
they dig each other’s graves
to bury themselves but then
they chew each leaf and flower
they tear roots drag goats by their hooves
people say from somewhere across
the generations why do this?
how could they live elsewhere
knowing their home lay here
perfect and immense fruit plump
pinched blooms field of grazing animals
how could they lie in their beds
at night pretending to touch
or reach into a gutted sky
when the leaves sway here
in vivid orange
when a tree that is not a house
is not silent when the maker
imagines his hands
Mackenzie Kozak holds a BA from Wake Forest University and an MFA from UNC-Greensboro. She lives in Asheville, NC where she admires mountains and grocery stores. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Boston Review, Cosmonauts Avenue, jubilat, Prelude, and Sixth Finch. Find her online at mackenziekozak.com
Return to September 2017 Edition