that what is frozen roars for eternity (and that’s too much for us) while gashes in our wrists will bleed ceaseless, fluttering crimson ribbons.

He surfaced in our Moment of Greatest Need, taking one of our soft hands in both of His, holding low branches aside, pointing out a thick root to step over

and with Him as slow, tedious guide we’ve crossed this forest ever since, far too obedient to ask where it ends but in silence

wondering, might that roar have been more bearable than we thought? Could we not try that place, one more time? There at least

Death cannot be so much as grasped 

amid its din. 
 

Elizabeth Bolton is a poet, writer and PhD student at the University of Toronto where she studies writing and the brain. She grew up in northern California and earned her Bachelor's degree from U.C. Berkeley. Her poetry has appeared in NoD Magazine and the Miracle Monocle, and her fiction is included in a forthcoming anthology of experimental fiction published by New Urge Books.