Annaka Saari


Imagine that there are many of you, all tongue and brain and taut body. Let me make braids
of you all, tie their legs up with butcher’s twine. Let the air harden and soften what it will.

I can tell the story of what I saw up north that summer, the frogs bleeding and the water
too warm. We can lie in bed as the helicopters circle. We can touch and let the eggs burn.


                                                                Once, I told you where I wanted to put my hands
                               and hoped you wouldn’t remember. Once, you showed me
                                                                how to light a match without marking up the bricks.

           Where I come from, the sky
                                turns leafy when a tornado
                                          puts on her make-up.

                                                                                                At the party, you held
                                                                                                a Heineken against
                                                                                                the back of my neck,
                                                                                                cold beads spitting down
                                                                                                the bottle-green glass