Issue > Poetry
Augusta Funk

Augusta Funk

Augusta Funk is a Zell Fellow at the University of Michigan where she recently completed her MFA. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Massachusetts Review, Memorious, Passages North, and elsewhere. She lives in Ann Arbor. 

Parade Day


In sheets of rain the morning passes. I walk
to the store for vinegar. I don't wear my coat.
I admire the pink bathroom light, the neighbor's
quiet cooking and the smoke that looks
like a woman's hair. When shadows come,
I look at doors and there are people, embracing,
the sound of a brittle leaf going by. Step by step,
I am learning to walk backwards through
my desires. To find comfort in naming
the fragile acts as they pass. In the same clothes,
under the same expressive, bright sky, I let
no one touch me, I say my eyes are soft
at times and sad at others. Cool the sounds
my animal body wants to make. 2 am. 4 am.
At dawn, a great seismic wave launches itself
from the nearby lake. Not even snow can wake
me. My sleep spreads blankets across this town.

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