If a Plane Crashed Exactly on the U.S.-Canadian Border, in Which Country Would They Bury the Survivors?
by Jeff Mock
—for Margot
published in Sweet Lit, issue 9.2, 2016
After I crawled away from the wreck And smolder, I toured the dazed woods —In circles within circles, I’m sure. The descent was still in my stopped heart. I hungered and learned the hard way Which berries not to eat. I wintered on brown pine needles In a hollow in the roots of a black oak And let my bones knit. It felt Good, between the spasms of pain, To be alive. Every morning was its own Sort of impact, again. In the spring, A golden doe found me and I remembered To breathe. What a difference that made. The trees leafed and the leaves breathed With me. The doe led me to a clearing In my own heart. It’s one thing To be alive, and something more to know it.
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