Emma Galloway Stephens

A plague built this house                                       out of thirty silver pine pieces                     cut from the woods with solemn hands It hovers above the Georgia sands                                       on white brick pillars, this pine box                     built for

We mourn because the world is broken. The deserts and the forests, all cracked, fissured in the fixture, a vessel split and leaking blood and oil into the water, the air, the soil, the valleys, the heights.