She said In a country in rain


I entered the church with the others, a church


what we enter in rain, here the large


shopmart with trees inside


becoming open air again, the people


would’ve been here already He said 


In which I carried you and


when you grew too heavy to carry I


carried you through the shallows of the bay





He said The grasses are dying from the wetness


this spring which is also fertile, you have strung yarn


through the branches, I garden


with a glove with barbed wire inside She said As trees


coaxed to fruit in bottles, bangled


on their limbs and let rot unto ferment, I saw


the cozened plank over two furrows, tried to distinguish


between eros and art mostly felt I should



She said I proposed to travel


asking anyone what’s the most beautiful


thing you have seen


then I’d go to it and the route


would take me south, I remember


water tanks over


the hospital grounds with axes


to topple them and flood


the hospital grounds when there is a fire,


I held the kettle at a boil, Of memory as current


perception not nostalgia

each blow recalled all others


and softened them, so I took them in



Zach Savich is the author of three collections of poetry, including The Firestorm, as well as a book of prose, Events Film Cannot Withstand. He teaches at Shippensburg University and serves as an editor with The Kenyon Review.