Milk bottle clouds mute illumination,
flat light casts no shadow
as the sun slinks to the west
like a beat dog.
Tiny flakes spittle tin on the window,
lake bites the shoreline
with rows of icy shark teeth.
We rowed over calm water last August,
when everyone was still alive.
Naked trees claw the white horizon,
brittle, black fingers
scratching your name in the brittle sky.
The Winter After
Dawn Levitt is a two-time heart transplant recipient, poet, essayist, and disability rights advocate who writes at the intersection of storytelling and healing. Her work has appeared in Newsweek, Insider Magazine, Remington Review, Breath and Shadow, Pink Panther Magazine, and many other journals and anthologies. Find her website at www.dawnlevittauthor.com.