What does she not feel, 
with the inside of her body looking so
planted we can see the bitter marigold
of her thought rise up out of her chest, rooted
and orange. When we go to her this morning
cools. We change our bodies into trowels, 
dig her out and split her. Forgive me if I think this
is what anyone should do, focus
on the most essential parts—this morning
and girl with her edible flower blooming. 
A potato just under the surface. Let me make
you breakfast in this light, with your face
looking so temporary, too. And you are. Morning
spreads like the thin veil of blood around the brain. 
It’s important to be here, to keep on.

Sara Moore Wagner is the Cincinnati-based author of the chapbook Hooked Through (Five Oaks Press, 2017). Her poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies including Glass, Gulf Stream, Gigantic Sequins, Stirring, Reservoir, and Arsenic Lobster, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, and was a recent finalist for the Tishman Review's Edna St Vincent Millay Prize. Find her at www.saramoorewagner.com