In the beginning, it was dust. It was stars,
there were two antelope

traipsing through the yard. If it wasn't me
who ran up and touched those antelope,

it was God, it was night. The whole
yard rang with wood and roots and light.

This is what happened:
I pushed myself through the soil

until it was rain, the elephants drank me,
we rubbed our bones together and made oceans.

Listen, this is the sound of how I began.
This is the sound of what sleeps inside my chest.

Brett Elizabeth Jenkins teaches and writes in St. Paul. Look for her work in Beloit Poetry Journal, PANK, Minnesota Review, Drunken Boat, Paper Darts, and elsewhere.

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761