A crowd of broken glass
bottlenecks suspended in the air,
dangling from thin strings of yellow
balls of rubber helium. The wolves were out
last night. I could feel the screams and the weight
of the deadbolt and the wind shifting east. Kiss me
like the winter cold. Transient. Promising. There’s
still a sound rattling in the ceiling. Our mouths
are still full of teeth and maple trees,
a collection of yellowing leaves.
Lisa Bren is a Pacific Northwesterner who drinks caramel lattes, wears wool sweaters, and thoroughly enjoys the ashy smell of campfires. Lisa is currently studying creative writing at Central Washington University.