by Elisabeth von Uhl At once, we are strangers — the memory of the wind blowing through stark, golden sugar maples on the side of a hill at my grandmother’s farm — you will never know. I keep this locked, a recollected pattern of neurons, hallowed, reversed, and stripped of color, like a funnel of

Digging Graves

by Elisabeth von Uhl Bodies are fragile. A universe wrapped                  inside molecules inside particles of magic, science, and a divine always choked by a political doctrine: you have always                  wanted new bodies; yours never had enough beauty, enough resilience, enough white. So now, you will wish for bleached perfection: bodies that never broke                  and needed