Winter Solstice Song

by Kelly Lenox Issue: Spring/Summer 2021

And if we don’t bury the body / it will cook microbially, / flesh separating into its colors / like leaves on a sugar maple— / red, yellow, green on the same / open palm. We don’t need to know why, / only when it will be finished / so we can get on with the / shopping. Spilling. Flushing. / Death sharp enough to slice / a shoe. The whole time, someone whistles / in the next room, or just outside. / We know only what we’ve lost. / Possibly even whom. She /—or perhaps, finally, he— / has already given up trying / to distinguish sound from color. / All is, he whispers on our necks. You are.



Kelly Lenox

Kelly Lenox is a writer and translator with work in Gargoyle, EcoTheo Review, SWWIM, Cirque, Hubbub, Split Rock Review and elsewhere in the U.S., U.K., Ireland and Slovenia. Her debut collection, The Brightest Rock (2017), received honorable mention in the 2018 Brockman-Campbell Book Award. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, Kelly holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and is an editor at the National Institutes of Health. www.kellylenox.com