Contributor: Amy Burns

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She, with upturned palms,
Laid herself to crying in that cradle.
The tears, viscose, did not wet her face but
Vulcanized her yoke;
Buoyed, only then did she set off rowing.
Going nowhere fast, she hammered the waves,
There was no besting her belligerence:
An internal friction heated her lungs,
Staved breathlessness and broke casks and spilled dark
Liquor until there was no more to spill.
She stopped rowing.
Only then did we catch on.
We took up the oars, left her dry,
Free to mourn tomorrow.


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Amy Burns is the Managing Editor of Mulberry Fork Review. She has recently returned to Alabama from the UK where she completed a PhD at the University of Glasgow. Amy is working on her second novel.