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Audio: Read by the author.


The body, where does it go? Winter
has come and almost gone. I have not touched
my body in months. If I wash myself

where will you go? Once, my skin held the scent
of you, once your body was warm against mine, once
we were naked and you bit me, your spit

on my skin—yesterday I found your hair
on a pillow. I kept it there. Tonight, like every
night before, the moon comes and cannot sleep.

She stalks the edges of fields, where villages
meet the night. She listens to the lovers
in their cots, who lie on their backs

holding hands, counting stars. Look how
they sleep, how they dream of the black tree
at the center of the ash field…



Megan Pinto is a poet living in Brooklyn. Her work has received support from Bread Loaf and the Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. She holds an MFA in poetry from Warren Wilson.




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