by Wendy Xu
Nadja is sleeping in the next room, tired
of chasing a blue flame
through the forests of the world.
When Nadja dreams, her dark hair spools
like ink onto the pillow.
Nadja wears a pink velvet dress and knocks
twice on a floating door.
Nadja feels the weight of something pull
at her left ankle.
Nadja feels a little funny.
Nadja unrolls her sleeves and slowly gathers
the entire field of flowers.
Nadja keeps none for herself.
Nadja looks up at the watery architecture
of the night and sits down
against a rock.
Nadja arrives at devastation.
Nadja plucks a star and tosses it back.
Nadja lays herself down, patterned
sideways in the blue grass.
Nadja is halfway undone by the wind
moving across her shoulders.
Nadja renounces the air.
Nadja floats away on something
About the Author:
Wendy Xu is the author of You Are Not Dead (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2013), and two chapbooks. Recent poems have appeared (or will appear) in The Best American Poetry, Black Warrior Review, Gulf Coast and elsewhere. She co-edits and publishes iO: A Journal of New American Poetry / iO Books, and lives in Western Massachusetts.