Ana Stevenson

In Celebration of Spilled Milk


There’s a troche in my
bones, an over eager
heartbeat pulsing through the
marrow, pushing out a
current fierce inside my
arteries, syllabic word-pool.

Milkweed broth spills Monarch
children. Words like these are
medicine to girls like
me who spoon-sip prairie
phrases, hungry for a
spoken garden. Eden
is in Hallelujah.