A-minor

by Nicholas Alti

this is not the first time we’ve lost god
in the air between the shapes we’re making

as we turn into a hive of amethyst & moonshine
chrysalis & chrysanthemum

sometimes, though, I am the water as it opens
for cupped hands, I am ambergris adrift

& I hold my breath until my tongue tastes gentian
lest I suck down the ocean as baptism

I mean the shape I take most often
is a coiled snake of bramble & wormwood

I’m the smoke billowing from behind the mountains
& the flowerpot you can’t keep a thing alive in

prayer is the light I turn off
when I need you at night

From the depths of the rural Midwest, Nicholas Alti is a barely-functioning occultist wannabe with trigeminal neuralgia and poor timing. Nicholas is an assistant editor for fiction and poetry at The Black Warrior Review. Other panicked yowls have found homes at DIALOGIST, Rivet, Drunk Monkeys, Contrary, and Puerto del Sol.