I awoke today in a different home than yesterday.
The day before I waited in a woman’s mailbox to nip
her fingers. I am without post and roost today.
Not we, there can be no we.
I watch the sky blacken like smoke with our bodies.
Like we’re transporting a net by being caught in it.
I was never taught to share like you share.
I am often still watching you when the moon comes.
I think of you while you sleep, and I hunger.
Snow coats me like a field, a ghost. With button eyes.
Kate Litterer recently graduated from the University of Pittsburgh with a dual degree in literature and creative writing and has since relocated to the midwest, where she wishes to continue her education toward an MFA in poetry.