Illustration: photo of brain coral digitally manipulated to resemble glacier at night centered on hornets' nest land feature


My heart was wrapped in clover and here we are in heaven,
Etta James croons on the radio while we sip chamomile tea
in a robin’s egg blue cup at my sister-in-law’s house.
My eyes fix on her face.


She says about her daughter: she would be turning forty
but in my dream, she’s three. I hold her tight.
Do you remember that time in the kitchen when she laughed
at her reflection in the oven glass door, dancing and twirling?
Just seven, maybe she was called back to dance with the stars.

I quiet against the balm of sorrow.
I quiet against the ice of silence.

I think of the Thwaite, nicknamed the Doomsday Glacier,
melting at an alarming rate and how
it supports the massive Antarctic ice sheet and how,

in the dark, it must be as buoyant and glistening as a star
and it must be as majestic and as faceless as God.

Louisa Muniz is in Sayreville, N.J. She holds a Master’s in Curriculum and Instruction from Kean University. Her work has appeared in Tinderbox Journal, Palette Poetry, Menacing Hedge, Poetry Quarterly, PANK Magazine, Jabberwock Review and elsewhere. She won the Sheila-Na-Gig 2019 Spring Contest for her poem Stone Turned Sand. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize. Her debut chapbook, After Heavy Rains by Finishing Line Press was released in December 2020.

Illustration by C.B. Auder.

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