Jan G. Otterstrom F.

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She fell into herself
no longer living on the surface
through a trap door
under a rug, into the floor
of grief that grows us
a single light bulb dangling
with its string, to illuminate
a nearer, fuller presence
jars of summer fruits in sweet syrups
and laundry to be cleaned
smell of coal dust and split cedar
hot burning tamarack chips
dried inside, where she kept her notes
secret entries, as she stepped beyond
stored within the musty bosom
of the earth, places so small
the mice seldom scurry, hidden away
without hurry, until the passing of the day.

Jan G. Otterstrom F. 1/29/2013