Two Poems by Anna B. Sutton

The Wife

Within me, a forest.
Within me, night.

In the dark, there is no
telling snag from spruce,

root from rot. I finger
clods of wet earth. Who

can I pray to? Tonight—
it is always night until

it isn’t—my forest
is haunted by boreal

breath, frozen mist trims
me in glass. I search

for late cloudberries
on my knees and find

sisters. Citrine gametes
spilling from icy bloom.

The Husband

her forest a ghost
mine material

what my hands
shape once I strip

wood bare a ship
to carry or bassinet

to keep the bright pair
collected in her apron

vital muscles moving
under their skin the terror

and terroir of them
I try not to think

how they will grow will
die some trees meant

to burn temper the earth
it is cruelty even

gods see themselves
decompose in the mirror

of their offspring
yet we propagate

plunge into a cold
sea eyes open to catch

a glimpse of Leviathan
her distant shadow circling

some larger meaning

Anna B. Sutton received her MFA from UNCW and a James Merrill Fellowship from Vermont Studio Center. She has worked for literary organizations, including Humanities Tennessee, Lookout Books, Blair Publisher, The Porch Writers’ Collective, and One Pause Poetry. Her work appears in Indiana Review, Copper Nickel, Third Coast, and elsewhere.