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Monique Sanchez

It’s too hot for May.


Or maybe I forgot

what it was like

to stand here.


Instead I erased from memory

the heat, the flies,

the ghosts,

and decay.




I only remember the blue

and the mountains

papering the horizon.

Per Annum

Monique Sanchez

The aridness, comforting

blankets me


My hands shield my eyes

from sunlight made

more punishing by absence


Everything is dead

Our small square of grass

rattles in its dryness


The aster, aborted

a mercy granted by God

powders under my heel


The egg in the coop is empty

but for a scarlet film


I walk inside the riverbed

my steps throwing glittering sand


Taproots brush my ankles,

their brown limbs reaching out

as if asking for a gift


Here I am again


Pastoral, Muted

Monique Sanchez

Everything ice

Everything ethereal

Everything oil


slick black & bleeding

out from glacier

A hi|s|tory

written in the waterline


Tell me—


What burns in the boreal?

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