by Laura Passin
A hummingbird hangs like a drone, tries to sip nectar from my breasts. My father told me he and my mother, three marriages ago, camped in this same park, breathing each other inside the thin sky. Sometimes you are the flower. Sometimes you are the elegy yourself. Sometimes you are the elsewhere, the seas, ineluctably rising. ____
Laura Passin is the author of Borrowing Your Body (Riot in Your Throat, 2021) and All Sex and No Story (Rabbit Catastrophe Press). She earned her PhD in English Literature at Northwestern and her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Oregon. Her writing has appeared in a wide range of publications, including Prairie Schooner, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Toast, Rolling Stone, Electric Literature, and Best New Poets. Laura lives in Denver with too many pets.