poem

by Evelyn Gill

it begins here

or rather

in the streets

it begins at the end

of an exhaust pipe

or rather

forty-one miles

off the Louisiana coast

it begins

with a man who makes masks

from gasoline canisters

or rather

a man who makes a living

from gasoline canisters

and plastic bags and plastic bags and plastic bags

mistaken for moon jellies

it begins in August

a soot-red sun

water rising

it begins with change

ends with change

or rather

it ends on foot

headed North

in grief

in coming together after grief

in forgetting

it ends

it ends with water

begins with water

fresh water carried

in gasoline canisters

by new hands

it begins

Evelyn Gill (she/they) is a queer poet, birdwatcher, and nurse living in northwest Washington with her spouse and dog. Evelyn’s work has appeared in Stoneboat Literary Journal, The Indianapolis Review, and The Westchester Review, among other publications.