Poetry

March 16, 2015      

Elegy by Sophia Holtz

Everything I have to say about the body is wrong.
I know a few things as sacred as Rodin’s sculpture
where two hands become the long arches of cathedral,
where carved stone becomes warm. Still,

nobody knows as much as they say. How can they,
with whole depths of water left unexplored, things buried
in the dirt we’ll never find before they rot.
We say there’s nothing rotten in our blood, nothing

that can carry us under. I think about the boy I knew,
and he is still not dead, even years later.
As if I could meet him on the street, as if nothing had changed
but the days. Boy who could have been any of us,

tell me the wind, and what you—
your collection of atoms—what that became.

Holtz_CdA 1About the author:

Sophia Holtz is a writer, performer, and sometimes-illustrator. She has performed her poetry in bars, colleges, and the occasional basement throughout the United States. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in RHINO, decomP, Consequence, H_NGM_N, and others. Find her at sophiaholtz.com

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