Poetry by Eric Stiefel
In the beginning, the world didn’t extend outside my field of view.
First snow, then new leaves. I wanted you to be the mirror
from which I saw the day. Nothing would hurt, everything fragile:
I was in and of, from, and also so-and-such. When touched, I didn’t have
any independant parts—bare-knuckle, collarbone,
what was down is also up. You were always breathing
ivy, evergreen. When my life became
an estuary, yours was a garden hidden by trees.
What should I call you? Yew, or oak, or pomegranate
seed—I could tame myself by returning to logic.
Always, always, foxglove, in between. Two fingers
across a mouth. I watched from your reflection,
as if it it could bring me warmth.
About the Poet
Eric Stiefel is a graduate of the MFA program at Washington University in St. Louis, where he also served as junior fellow in poetry. He was recently named the winner of the 2018 Sequestrum New Writer Awards and a finalist in the 2018 Penn Review Poetry Prize. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Foglifter, Communion, Dream Noir, The Louisville Review and elsewhere.
Want more great poetry? Click the Vita Brevis Randomizer below (maybe you’ll find the hidden page!)