since your death.
I trip down the path
wounded wolves have earlier forged
through the thickets.
Blood marks the way.
My heart breaks into tiny pieces
that float towards the sunset.
They form a mosaic around
birds rushing to safe places
for another day.
A younger me nets the pieces
at sunrise, molds them into a vase
for the flowers men will bring to my life.
I don’t yet know things can break
so easily or that those flowers
once meant for my arms
will be laid on graves instead.
The wolves call to me,
reminding me I must return.
I send dreams up to holograph hope
to the future me, teetering
The poems of Pris Campbell have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including PoetsArtists, Nixes Mate, Rusty Truck, Bicycle Review, The Red Fez, Octopus Review, Boxcar Poetry Review, and Outlaw Poetry. Nominated six times for a Pushcart, the Small Press has published eight collections of her poetry. My Southern Childhood, (Nixes Mate) is her most recent book. A former Clinical Psychologist, sailor and bicyclist until sidelined by ME/CFS in 1990, she makes her home with her husband in the Greater West Palm Beach, Florida.